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The Indignant Pawn, Chapter XIV: The Queen’s Guard Dog

Description: You are Y/n Y/l/n- formerly known as Princess Helena, the runaway princess.

You're an assassin for hire who only agrees to find the worst of London's criminals at the business end of your knife; until a mysterious woman hires you to end the likes of Ciel Phantomhive, the King of the Underworld. You find yourself trading your weapons for your abandoned family crest in order to infiltrate his home as none other than Princess Marie-Louise, your twin sister. What's to happen when you find that the young Earl is more than a callous businessman?

OVERALL STORY WARNINGS: sexual assault (once in the prologue), objectification, misogyny, death, detailed description of blood/gore, detailed description of murder, lying, impersonation, theft, weapons, detailed panic attacks, symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder, kissing

CHAPTER WARNINGS: plenty of combat, shooting, detailed description of violence, pain, and gore, nasty corpse described in detail, suicide briefly mentioned

Author’s Note: Happy Halloween, dear readers! I actually didn’t plan on a chapter coming out today, but things just worked out that way! Anyways, think of this chapter as the start of this fic’s “Act 2″ and just know I wrote most of this chapter to my Spotify playlist entitled “stop checking your phone, he didn’t text you.” So I took out the deep shit lol.

Happy Reading!

- Dan

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MASTERLIST

. . .

APRIL 3RD, 1892

LONDON, ENGLAND

“There is nothing to make work, Your Highness.” Ciel’s blunt words, haunting you, refused to stop echoing in your head. They reminded you that from some corner of his twisted, dark, and somber mind, there was no remote possibility that you could be together, romantically or as you were.

You couldn’t live with him, making believe the night prior never took place, silently breathless while you fixated on his every word. Especially not while you were supposed to kill him. Even if you could channel all your rage and mortification into a bloodthirsty craving to commit murder, it wouldn’t be enough to force you to follow through.

It was cowardly, but this was the only action you could take. Much like Elizabeth ending the engagement because it would cause the least harm to the three of you, you were stuffing your belongings into a small leather suitcase and leaving to cause the least amount of harm to yourself and Ciel. There were no palatable ways you could see the next several weeks playing out if you stayed; you couldn’t force the Earl to want you, and you wouldn’t.

You never needed anyone besides yourself. Degrading yourself by chasing after an emotionless man would betray every skill Baxter left you. You’d sooner die than commit such a fallacy.

The scent of smoke washed over you as you pulled the conman’s chestnut jacket over your arms. You dressed down for the sake of riding and returning to your life, sporting a plain beige petticoat with a navy bodice. Clumps of assorted necklaces and rings weighed the deep pockets, jingling at the slightest movements. Perhaps they were better packed into the suitcase, with your previously hidden weapons and few personal effects.

Doña supplied everything else you brought, luxury gowns and all sorts that a princess would need with her. She purchased the jewelry, but you’d need it to pay your way to the States and food for the next several months.

After all, once Princess Marie was declared missing, there would be a rigorous international search for her. You would need to stay in hiding for a long time, and the royal-free United States would be your best chance at anonymity. You didn’t have the liberty of disappearing as the unpopular German princess again.

You pensively surveyed your quarters one last time as if you could commit every detail to memory, though the room was disheveled. You were keeping all of your belongings well hidden, and digging them up somewhat destroyed the room’s graceful ambiance. For instance, you had the final porcelain salt shaker jammed underneath the floorboard by your nightstand. Now, it sat in your petticoat while the floorboard leaned against the wall, pried away from its brethren.

As you left the manor, you invested all your accumulated knowledge about its layout. The best route to avoid Ciel’s quarters was the servants’ rooms, whose minuscule parts of the wooden floor complained the loudest when you stepped over them. You refused to take any chance. After all, if someone saw you, it would be impossible to maintain your ruse.

Most likely, you would need to kill them.

You slipped through the servant entrance at the manor’s side, opposite Ciel’s room. The moment you shut the heavy door behind you, you took a grateful sigh, trudging along the side of the building until you found a decent cluster of bushes.

Although thallium sulfate was a marvelous poison, it would be unwise to carry it onto a steamship. Though odorless, a trained officer knows the signs of disguised poison: indiscriminate containers, tasteless, carried by a suspicious character. A young woman traveling alone was bound to catch a few eyes in the first place. You were too tall to hide behind cargo boxes this time.

Thus, you unscrewed the salt shaker’s cap, and after kicking a patch of dirt away with your heel, you poured the white substance. If it killed the plants, which you doubted it would, Sebastian would simply replace them.

“Poisoning the plants seems rather cruel of you, wouldn’t you say so?”

Speak of the devil.

You paused, turning around so quickly you might’ve fallen over if you weren’t careful. Did you not check behind you? No, you did. You had to have.

“I’m sorry?” You asked intelligently, staring down at the full salt shaker in your hands. You blinked slowly, perplexed. Seconds ago, you poured the thallium into the dirt, yet it was back in its casing. The white substance managed to stare at you.

“Surely you must know what happens to those who ingest large amounts of thallium sulfate,” Sebastian said. “Would it be fair of me to presume you intended this rather agonizing death for my master?” he asked, although he very well knew the answer. The butler smiled, but his eyes were venomous, almost glowing as they reflected the rising sun.

Your head swam, looking for something to say, something to do, a way to escape, but you failed yourself. Sebastian was a man who could catch bullets and return them the same speed a gun initially launched them. It didn’t matter how experienced or clever you were, he could kill you. And by the murderous joy in his eyes, he would, given a chance.

The sharp inhale you meant to take in felt like a desperate gulp of air, as if you were sinking in an ocean, slowly letting the waves consume you before taking one final, parting breath. Was this how your sister felt? Or did Doña’s men have mercy and put a bullet between her eyes before capsizing the royal steamship?

“If you let me leave, I will never come here again. I won’t so much as remain in this country,” you couldn’t recognize your voice. It was ragged, pained, cornered like a lion in a cage, tamed by a whip. “Please, Sebastian. I have everything I need with me now. I will go.” This was how your voice sounded the morning Baxter died.

But you knew how that morning ended: four dead men, a mistreated girl, and a big crime scene to clean.

Sebastian was a lot of things; eloquent, graceful, and intelligent. But he was not merciful in any sense of the word.

“As much as I would enjoy that, my Lord has another way he wishes to…handle you,” the butler said as if he were referring to a common rat. “Please empty your pockets and allow me to take your bag.” It wasn’t the placid request he dictated it to be, and you knew better than to refuse.

So Ciel knew.

“Very good. Follow me.”

Complying would give you the best chance at survival. When you couldn’t use force, that merely meant you could rely on your mind. Surely some arrangement would allow you to leave free or even keep you alive long enough to find a way to escape on your merit.

Mey-Rin and Baldroy waited at either side of the doors of Ciel’s study, exchanging a stiff nod with Sebastian.

Neither of them looked at you, and neither of them was visibly armed, of course not. Mey-Rin could hardly handle dressing you, and you could work a furnace better than Baldroy. Still, you were outnumbered.

“After you,” Sebastian allowed you to open the office doors yourself, revealing Ciel, well-dressed in navy. He set his angular jaw, glaring in the same look he sent when he glowered at his enemies, Frances, Finley, and Arthur Randall.

Now, it was your turn. Being the target of such a look was like enduring a bullet to the chest.

“Your Highness,” Lord Phantomhive spat your pretend title like a curse, like the lie it was; a far cry from his usual fond sarcasm. “You don’t understand, I know,” he said gravely, looking at you as if you’d committed a crime. All you did was allow your feelings to grow too deep.

Now you understood; Ciel wasn’t referring to knowing your feelings. He was referring to the truth. From his shift in behavior, no matter how hard he tried to hide it, the supposed call from Scotland Yard informed him, no, led him to the truth. You would have understood if you hadn’t been such a fool, tangled by your useless feelings. And you would have let take his toast.

“Leave us, Sebastian,” Ciel ordered, ignoring Sebastian’s easy yes, my Lord, to fixate on you again. He only spoke once the door shut behind you.

“Now, let me explain how we will proceed, Your-” he faltered before he could retain the curt look he was trying to emulate. “Or shall I refer to you as Y/n behind closed doors?”

“Y/n,” you responded, his attitude fueling a growing rage within you, your vulnerability hardening like a callus.

“I would imagine at this stage of your life; you would prefer Y/n,” Ciel ignored you, “well, no matter what you choose to call yourself, we are to be married,” he said, pulling a velvet box out of his suit pocket. You might have thought he was joking if he hadn’t brandished the box like a weapon, you might have thought he was joking. He was torturing you before trying to slit your throat.

You scoffed instinctively. “No. No, that simply will not stand. I know what you do to your enemies before you dispose of them. You hurt them so much that they wish they were dead! You intend to torture me before you kill me.”

Despite your own words, you knew he was serious. You could see it on his face.

“I have to say, that's a rather short-sighted perspective. You have a competent mind; try to apply an inkling of logic here,” Ciel said, but you understood him well. He did intend to torture you by forcing you to live at his side for the rest of your life. As Marie for the rest of your life, a thought that now made you tempted to beg Sebastian for your thallium to drink yourself. While the idea seemed reasonable last night, it was when you thought you would have an understanding partner to be as you could manage.

“You are now Princess Marie of Schleswig-Holstein. The powers that be know what you did with your sister. How you disposed of her. Nevertheless, Her Majesty believes her living granddaughter is in my care. I cannot allow you to die or vanish under my watch,” he explained. “All the while…you can rot as the German princess for the rest of your life. It shall be your penance for your attempts on my life. Our union will ensure I enjoy the advantages of being a part of the royal family. Understand?”

Beyond rage and vile hatred, there was nothing in his face. He looked like a marble statue of a vengeful god, hauntingly handsome but brutally cruel.

Your face felt hot as a result of your anger, making the room feel hot. It made your head pound, your heartbeat indignantly thumping in your chest. Doña was correct; the Lord Ciel Phantomhive was a malicious and sadistic man. You should have ridden the world of him weeks ago, seeing how easily the Queen’s Guard Dog eclipsed the man who bandaged your finger and read you philosophy to coax you to deep slumber. The man you could fall asleep next to.

“Your hand, if you will?” Ciel ordered, opening the box to reveal an engagement ring. The ring was annoyingly beautiful. And annoyingly you. It was a black diamond cut into a circle, the band ornate rose gold with accenting sapphire and emerald gemstones within the swirling gold patterns. Sapphire and emerald indicated the union between the royal line and the Phantomhives.

“Y/n?” Ciel prompted, waiting for you to offer your hand a moment longer. At your refusal, he huffed impatiently, taking it upon himself to take your hand. The movement caused you to spring into action, wrapping the very hand he tried to grab around his palm. You put all your strength into squeezing Ciel’s hand, twisting it, so his thumb faced the outside of his body.

“Damn it! Let me go!” he demanded, spitting each word into staccato notes. His face tightened with pain. You weren’t twisting his wrist enough to break it, but enough to cause immense discomfort. He was lucky; if his loyal servants weren’t waiting outside the door, you would take a pen from his desk and plunge it into his carotid artery. His free hand raised as if he wanted to slap you, but he thought better.

With a glare, you obeyed, releasing him. “I can do it myself,” you snapped, picking the box up from the floor to slide the ring onto your left hand’s fourth finger. You wanted nothing more than to shove the ornate piece of jewelry down his throat, but for the time being, you could wait.

You would wait.

. . .

If you had the opportunity to take your supper in your room, you would have.

Instead, you were sitting through a thinly veiled interrogation, your asparagus risotto tortuously sitting in front of you. Yesterday, you were Atlas, the world's weight your shoulders, when Lizzie gave you her blessing to be with her cousin. Today, you were Tantalus, starving in many ways, with everything you wanted just out of reach.

“To be clear, you are the former Princess Helena-Victoria of Schleswig-Holstein,” Ciel confirmed as if he was still trying to come to terms with the fact that you had been lying to him for nearly four months. He had a pen and paper at the side of his plate, prepared to take notes. His bruising wrist sat on a sack of ice.

Your eyebrows knit together as you gave Ciel a dubious look that said: obviously.

“Y/n Y/l/n fits this stage of my life,” you smarted, reciting Ciel’s words from earlier that day. Not that you were particularly regal during your time undercover, not having to be perfect and in character lifted somewhat of a burden. You rolled your eyes as he scribbled down your name in his loopy script.

“How did you manage to get away? At ten. And live?”

“How do you manage to be so irksome? At eighteen. And not get murdered before I came along?” you shot back.

You didn’t understand why any of this was necessary to discuss. It was so far behind you, you hardly remembered it. Sure, you recognized the general culmination of your early teenage years. It was winter in the city, conning the rich with Baxter, summers in Alfriston, working and enjoying the countryside. Learning was year-round. Baxter was not educated in the sense a noble would appreciate, but he was the best teacher you’d ever have.

“Focus on the topic at hand, Y/n. I’m questioning you here.” Ciel said bitterly. “Who commissioned you to come here, then?”

Now, these were the sorts of questions you were expecting. The ones you’d prefer to answer. You would never sully the memory of your life with Baxter by telling Ciel about it. He was nothing if not similar to Baron Steven Wright.

“I’m not sure,” you said, silencing the beginnings of Ciel’s protest with a look. “She never told me her name. All I know is that she and her servants speak Spanish, she only wears beige, and she has a baby. And she is young.”

“I have never heard of such a person,” he mumbled, jotting down notes from your description. “Did she tell you why she wants me killed?”

“You killed her whole family. That is all she told me,” you explained before Ciel could pester you, “she never explained why, when or how.”

Clearly, the Earl didn’t believe you. If you were in his place, you doubted you would trust your words either. After all, you could very well be lying. But you weren’t that loyal to Doña. Not since she sent forces to the manor to attack you, intentionally putting you in harm’s way and calling it motivation.

Ciel set his pen flat on the table, taking a slow inhale. “Y/n, if I must, I can certainly find ways to jog your memory. Surely you have better recollection than what you’ve been telling me. Must I motivate you?” he asked, fingers meaningfully grazing the butter knife on his place setting.

You failed to fight the mocking smile that tugged at the corners of your mouth. He was threatening you and all you could think about was how easily you could end him. Ciel Phantomhive was a spoiled Earl with a butler to wait on him and he thought he could challenge you, an experienced killer and successfully jog your memory?

“You could try, yes. But more likely, you would require your butler to carry out such a task,” you took a leisurely spoonful out of your risotto, shaking your head. The man across from you had a boundless ego; that was certain. “And that’s presuming you live long enough to wail for him. You’re a weak excuse for an Earl.”

To his credit, Ciel’s composure remained steadfast, despite your purposeful jab. “Allow me to remind you: you couldn’t bring yourself to kill me. You were too weak to carry out your job, and that is how you ended up in this predicament. Don’t you dare presume to call me weak, Y/n.”

“You are simply a pompous coward!” you exclaimed, his words igniting your veins as you rose from your chair. Ciel did the same, his fingers wrapping around the knife he was previously caressing. Your stomach twisted into embarrassed knots, manipulating you into feeling seasick.

Of course, he would weaponize your affection for him. That’s what unfeeling, heartless men did when there was nothing more to fault about a person. A low, predictable blow.

Yesterday, he held you close, leading you around the dance floor in graceful steps. Steps you taught him. Admittedly, under false pretenses but truly, Ciel knew it was still you, no matter what you lied about. And he was afraid of that.

You’d show him a low blow.

Before you could stop yourself, you drove the side of your hand, pinky first, into the bit of muscle neck to Ciel’s neck. He was taller, but not so much that your arm had difficulty reaching him when you pounced. You forced him to bend at the waist by taking your opposite hand and taking hold of his shirt. You used all of your body weight to pull him down in his pained haze, pinning him on the floor. His knife clattered to the floor.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Ciel protested, breathless from the floor, knocking the wind out of his lungs. “You’re a bloody lunatic!” He thrashed under you, using his taller frame to shove you off. Against biological advantages, your training could only help you so much. Besides, floor combat was not your specialty.

“And what will you do, Ciel Phantomhive? Call for your butler to save you?” You taunted, fingers clutching either opening of his jacket to try to force his head to crash into the floor. You failed.

Instead, Ciel drove his kneecap into your stomach, causing a flare of pain to erupt in your abdomen. Despite his bad wrist, he managed to shove you away and take hold of his knife, which was close enough for him to reach without giving you time to recover. He used his taller frame to keep you pinned against the floor, pressing the butter knife’s rounded tip into your throat, right over your racing pulse. The silver instrument felt cold against your warm skin.

“No; I can handle an imposing girl on my own,” Ciel growled, digging the point into your flesh threateningly. Your knees squirmed under his straddle, hindered by your heavy skirts. His non-dominant hand kept your arm in place with a steely grip that dug into your forearm, leaving your arm bent at the elbow, a 90-degree angle.

For a moment too long, Ciel watched you uncertainly. He seemed undecided on where he wanted to train his gaze, the knife imprinting in your skin (yet to cause any bleeding) or your lips. The latter seemed to be winning, to your twisted amusement. At the end of the day, Ciel Phantomhive was a man, and it wasn’t like the fatal, magnetic attraction between the both of you could disintegrate in two days.

But this was a matter of survival.

“And I can handle a spoiled Earl!” you grunted, using the heel of your free hand to drive into his nose. Your revelation fueled the sudden burst of adrenaline you used to power your arm, using his confusion to twist your body and force his dead weight to the side.

Ciel cursed, grumbling an unabashed host of unflattering names directed towards you. His hands instinctively flew to his bleeding nose, trying to figure if it was broken or not. “You are just out of your mind!” he exclaimed, “an unruly loon!”

“No more so than you are,” you responded, rising to your feet with the help of a chair. Your stomach complained, pained by the sharp kick it took, but you ignored it. With the Earl distracted with his new injuries, you could make a reasonable shot at escape. “Now, seeing as you simply cannot handle this strong woman, I will be making my leave! Try and stop me if you still think yourself capable!”

Ciel’s yell for his servants sounded far away as you bounded down the corridor.

What could they do? Mey-Rin could hardly handle your evening tea; Baldroy seemed to be most keen on playing with his flamethrower before all else, and Finny was about as innocent as a child. Your focus needed to be on evading Sebastian’s inhuman strength and agility.

“Stop this instant! You will pay dearly for your insolence!” Ciel’s footsteps followed you, but you ignored them. He was a distraction, and if you heeded his words, you would lose your lead.

Thankfully, the Earl surrendered to his fragile constitution. Breathing heavily, he stopped chasing you, his asthma likely irritated by the initial brawl you started in the dining room and the sudden chase. Even your lungs burned, but you couldn’t afford to slow. Sebastian always pounced when you let your guard down.

You pushed the servant’s entrance open, letting the heavy doors slam behind you. The sound echoed through the cellar, but at least you managed to get outside. The sky was clear, the sun beaming.

It only took a few paces before you suffered from your mistake: looking up, rather than where you were going. Novice mistake, seeing as you only made it a few paces before slamming into someone.

“Um, Your High-- Y/n, you really shouldn’t be out here,” Finny said, frowning anxiously. His white gardening gloves tugged at his work shirt, fiddling. The sun made his blond hair shine as if Rumplestiltskin wove it from pure gold. He looked guilty even though you were the one on the run.

“Step aside,” you ordered, truly having no desire to harm an innocent man such as the Phantomhive estate gardener. “I have no grievances against you, Finny. Allow me to pass and I will let you live,” there was more confidence in your voice than you felt, Sebastian’s looming threat crawling up your back, turning your bones to lead.

The gardener was unconvinced. “No, Miss, I’m sorry, but that just won’t do. My master said that you have to remain on estate grounds….”

You pulled your lips into a tight purse. There was no time for this debate.

Without wasting another moment, you pulled Finny’s skinny body close by his shoulders. Inspired by Ciel, you jammed your knee into his abdomen with all your strength; right under his ribcage on the right side of his stomach. You could hit someone in the liver blindfolded; you were lucky Ciel wasn’t as trained as you were. Such a blow was brutal. And dirty.

“Ow!” The gardener cried out and crumbled to the ground, the impact against his ribs sending a shock through his body. It decreased his blood pressure to make him black out.

Ow was correct. You surely bruised your knee with that blow, but you didn’t have time to care about that or the morality of hurting an innocent. While Finny wasn’t visibly armed and had a child’s disposition, you didn’t know the full extent of his capabilities. You weren’t a success in your field because you acted according to your initial estimations.

You had warned him, after all.

But just when you thought your exit to the forest line was free, a gunshot echoed throughout the vicinity. It was a gunshot, unmistakably, it came from behind you, but when you turned your head, no one was there. It wasn’t until you looked up that you realized where it came from.

There was a single individual perched on the roof of the manor, difficult to spot in the light but unmistakably there. They sent another shot your way, but they narrowly missed; an incredible feat given the distance between you at ground level and the shooter at the peak of the building. You jumped, instincts forcing you to move to the side and give one last look in an attempt to discern who your next enemy was.

They had a feminine figure, clad in black and white. A…maid’s costume.

Your blood ran cold. It couldn’t be. Mey-Rin? The silly maid who broke tea set after tea set?

She had no qualms about shooting again, this bullet piercing a hole through your petticoat, centimeters from your skin. The gunshot rang throughout the estate once more, cracking with the same power you heard when Doña sent those men. At least you weren’t the only undercover killer. You had to admit; it was clever of Ciel to keep a skilled sniper about his manor at all times.

But it wasn’t enough. She had a good shot because you were out in the open, nearing the treeline as you ran once more. Every bit of your body complained, feet aching from your heeled boots. Ciel pressed hard enough to draw blood, considering there was crimson blood dripping down your neck.

You used your anger to fuel each step, but after you passed the forest line, the bullets only grew more rapid, as if another marksman joined Mey-Rin. You refused to waste time and look back, but a lucky shot gave you no choice, grazing your side, the combined force and pain tripping you.

Who could manage such a shot?

Nobody human, that was for sure.

You fell to the ground panting and just as involuntarily as Finny did. Your trembling hands tried to cover the raw wound on your right side. Even your ankle throbbed, insinuating that you twisted it in your fall. Excessive dryness overwhelmed your mouth and tongue, the desire for cold water more consuming than the searing heat the bullet caused. All you could smell was a combination of blood and your own burnt flesh.

“Whoa,” you hardly heard yourself, “ouch.” The destruction the grazed bullet left made your stomach turn, showing off red, turgid flesh. Rolling onto your back, you tried to guide your shaking hands back over the wound, but it only stung.

“Get up, Y/n,” Baxter urged from the back of your mind, but it was no use. How you wished you could tell him so. “You can do difficult things. Get up. Use what’s around you, girl. God put a brain in that skull for a reason.”

You used your non-dominant hand to touch a tree’s coarse bark and press against its sturdy trunk. By putting your weight against the sturdy trunk, you rose to your feet, but the second you tried to walk, you would have fallen back to the forest floor if a set of arms hadn’t caught you.

“This game of chase is quite a silly waste of time, wouldn’t you think so?” Sebastian’s shadow loomed over you since he caught you from behind. Ironically, like a childish trust exercise. “You were much easier to manage when all you preferred to do was read, if I may be so blunt,” he mused, quickly scooping you into his arms.

“I hate you,” you seethed, only causing Sebastian to chuckle.

“I’m not so fond of you, either, Miss Y/n. You are alive because my master wishes for it. Mey-Rin could have easily shot a bullet through your heart, much like Finny could have crushed you like an insignificant ant. In the same way, I could snap your neck with my bare hands. You live per my Lord’s wishes; please do keep that in mind,” Sebastian said jovially, applying firm pressure to your wound. Your blood soiled his white gloves, formerly pristine.

Sebastian’s eyes glowed in the sunlight as he walked you back to the estate’s clearing or because he wasn’t human.

“What are you, Sebastian?” You drawled, ignoring the threatening overtones in his voice. “No one is this perfect.”

He didn’t seem taken aback by your question in the slightest. Instead, it only made his smile deepen.

“Why, I’m simply one hell of a butler. There is no need for flattery when you so clearly detest me, Miss. I have no use for your compliments.”

. . .

“And she isn’t dead?” Your closed door muffled Ciel’s question. By the time he came to check on you, recovering from his own injuries, Sebastian had your side bandaged tightly. No stitches needed. A sack of ice sat on your ankle. At his demonic butler’s confirmation, he mumbled a nearly indiscernible good.

“You look like hell,” you said upon Ciel’s entry, noting the bandage over his slightly swollen nose. There was some redness under his eyes, but you knew you didn’t hit him hard enough to break his nose. You regretted that, considering his maid of all people reduced you to this bedridden mess of a person.

“And you are quite fortunate I instructed my servants to fight to deter, not to kill,” Ciel settled on the desk chair at your bedside. He held ice against his wrist, stare flitting to the dressed cut on your throat and your bored expression.

“You are fortunate I decided to fight to deter, not to kill. Otherwise, both you and your gardener would be dead at this very moment,” you sighed, briefly wondering how Finny was faring. Sebastian told you Baldroy, and Mey-Rin were tending to him as he roused from his unconsciousness-- tired but not permanently hurt.

“Your pride will undo you, Y/n.

“You say as if you are the wiser,” you replied stubbornly. If he wouldn’t kill or release you, you intended to make him wish to. But as you watched him, his injured yet fully intact spirit, a question rose to your tongue: before you could stop it: “when did you learn the truth?”

After a long, reluctant look, Ciel’s resolve crumbled. “If you recall, it was the phone call I’d received from the Yard the morning before the wedding….”

APRIL 1ST, 1892

LONDON, ENGLAND

“Right, if it is a…dire matter, I shall tend to it. Of course,” Ciel ran his palms over his suit to wipe their perspiration, slowly forming from the exertion the waltz required, his mortification, and Princess Marie’s warmth. “Thank you, Your Highness. Sebastian, see to lunch preparations for after this call.”

After dipping his head to the flushed princess, Ciel quickly showed himself up the stairs, retreating slightly faster than the situation required. He couldn’t help himself; the butterflies in his stomach made him feel jittery. They made his face grow hot and red, like some fool who wore his heart on his sleeve. He wanted them gone.

He was Ciel Phantomhive, the Queen’s Guard Dog, for heaven’s sake! He couldn’t have felt like this for anyone, yet the princess permanently ingrained herself in his mind. It was a repulsive set of impulses, wanting to be around the same person, craving the sight of their smile, studying their person-- every word that slipped their lips, every subtly in their comments.

Ciel’s thoughts made him nauseous.

From the time he took to trudge up the stairs and slump at his desk, Ciel nearly forgot to pick up the phone. The Yard called again, and the ringing pulled him from his princess-induced stupor.

“Lord Phantomhive!” Fred Abberline’s inquisitive voice sounded over the line. The background murmuring told Ciel that the detective was not in his office alone. A higher-up must have requested he make the call. “We are re-opening the Amelia Dyer case. Please come to the station as soon as you can manage.”

“What could you possibly mean you’re re-opening the Amelia Dyer case? We ruled it an accident for lack of physical evidence, did we not?” Ciel asked, his fingers rubbing at the forming wrinkles in his forehead.

“We found her body, sir. It was floating in the Thames and preserved in the cold water all this time. She was murdered.”

“I will be on my way. I will be there within the hour,” Ciel said, wasting no time putting on a jacket and readying himself. He ordered Sebastian to watch over Her Highness and the estate; Ciel could handle himself in the city.

Amelia Dyer’s body was blistered, and a sickly green color, but her injuries were apparent: the intentional severing of both popliteal arteries, judging by the location of each clever cut. From each gaping wound, Ciel saw layers of adipocere developing or wax that forms in a submerged fatty tissue during decomposition in freezing water.

“She was indeed murdered,” Ciel agreed. No one could easily reach such vital points, and an average person would opt for an easier suicide. No average prostitute from a train station would know how to make such precise and vengeful cuts. This murderer conducted their crime with revenge as a focal point, slowly letting the baby farmer bleed out by severing the backs of her knees. “Leave me be, Abberline. I have to think.”

Staring into Amelia Dyer’s dead gaze, Ciel reviewed what he knew:

The woman murdered unwanted infants. A case in point, she murdered the woman in the train station’s infant because the prostitute’s husband had no desire to raise a bastard child. Aghast and vengeful, the woman begged Princess Marie to kill Amelia Dyer and return her child to her. She mistook her for her sister, Y/n.

Y/n was the former princess Helena-Victoria of Schleswig-Holstein, confirmed by the Undertaker, the estate’s attackers, and there was no physical evidence supporting her death. It was presumed, after two weeks of searching.

As indicated by the Undertaker, she was an active and heavily experienced contract killer.

An experienced killer would know how to sever one’s popliteal arteries and do so vengefully, clearing believing they are serving justice.

Amelia Dyer died the night the prostitute confronted Princess Marie at the train station.

Princess Marie killed a man with a pen and knocked another unconscious. That could not be formal self-defense training. She could hardly stand upright on ice skates, a vital skill for a royal. Her dancing was laced with uncertainty. She never corresponded with her family. She first cared to ask about Ciel’s investigative endeavors after he observed the Dyer crime scene.

Y/n killed countless victims in numerous ways, most subtle enough to keep Ciel, the bloody King of the Underworld, unsuspecting.

Princess Marie was ill the day following Amelia Dyer’s death.

Now, Ciel was ill himself, sickened from his theory. He pushed past Abberline to return to his estate, needing to rifle through the dozens of German newspapers he possessed tucked away in his desk. Each headline mentioned Princess Marie in one way or another, and he needed to compare the most recent image to the girl imprinted in the front of his mind.

Newspaper-Marie: no cheekbone scar, frown lines, innocent smile, bright eyes.

Ciel’s Marie: cheekbone scar upon close inspection, deep scowl lines, caustic grin, observant eyes.

Ciel’s eyes stung as he took an impossible breath in. His intense grip on the printed paper in his hands tore it. He put all of his rage into crumpling the paper into a tight ball, lobbing the ball across his study.

The prostitute beseeched the correct twin. That was why Sebastian couldn’t locate Y/n. She was under their noses, posing as her sister. Making a fool of him. Teasing him. Lying to him…

On a mission. To kill him. He was Y/n’s next target.

“Sebastian!” Ciel all but screamed, salty tears forming in his eyes. The intensity, he stood up and knocked his office chair into the bay window behind him.

It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be.

“Yes, my Lord,” Sebastian entered, closing the door behind him. He was entirely too calm in the face of his vexed master. “I see you’ve put the pieces together. Excellent, sir.”

“You knew?” Ciel asked, his hands slamming on his desk. The demon didn’t even flinch. Instead, he chuckled.

“Not for certain, although I admit I had my suspicions.”

“And you said nothing?” Ciel shouted, fingers curling into a fist. Marie was Y/n, Marie was Y/n, Marie was Y/n, Marie was Y/n.

Someone hired her to kill him. Everything they’d experienced together in the past several weeks was a lie staged by one of his enemies, orchestrated like a polished symphony, predictable like a play.

This was why he couldn’t find anyone who could threaten the crown: no one did. It was all fabricated to push Princess Marie into his care.

“It was not my place,” Sebastian said. “I am but a chess piece for you to move, my Lord. It has never been my position to accuse a princess of being an imposter. Certainly not as your lowly butler. That being said… how do you wish to proceed, my Lord?”

Ciel blinked rapidly. He would not cry. He refused. All humans lied; there was nothing different about this deception. Once again, he caught the actual criminal, and in the end, he was correct: finding Y/n would solve the case.

Ciel cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. “We will proceed with the wedding as usual and make our move once it passes. The Midfords expect the princess to be present, and we shall not disappoint them. Our confrontation will have to take place the morning after. In the meantime, I need you to commission a specific ring….”

You cringed throughout Ciel’s recount of the day before the wedding. The call from the Yard, how he described Amelia Dyer’s body, and his thought process. How he seamlessly unraveled every one of your lies with this single clue.

“You did well,” you admitted begrudgingly, speaking to the very glittering on your finger. “Not many people would have been able to come to this conclusion,” you sighed, “truly a brilliant job, Guard Dog.”

If it weren’t for that phone call, you could have been on your way to the States, preparing to start anew.

You knew you should have allowed Dyer’s body to char with her cursed house.

. . .

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talesfromthebacklog · 6 months

Text

Tales From The Backlog: Dredge

8/10

Dredge is a rare breed. It is a subtle Lovecraftian open world horror that one could almost dare say is a cozy game. I love it when genres come together and make beautiful weird things.

🎣 Horror fishing. What a weird mix! But at the same time, it’s not. There’s been stories throughout all of human history of mysterious watery horrors and fisherman. It’s one of the oldest kinds of story we have. And yet it’s pretty rare in gaming to see.

The only other game like it that I can even think of is Fishing Vacation. (Also on my backlog…)

I have a complicated relationship with horror games. I love horror movies but at the same time video games become too personal. I’ve gotten better as I got older but like… some titles are still too intense for me. I get too real life stressed out.

I normally play horror like PARANORMASIGHT: The Seven Mysteries of Honjo or Until Dawn. As they provide less intense experiences. I feel like characters are being attacked. Not me.

With all that being said I had reservations on picking up this horror title. Starting a new horror franchise is like doing a trust fall. As I fall I have to hope the experience isn’t too spicy for me. And ocean horror in particular can be the most TERRIFYING of the lot. There’s no ground or sky in the water. An enemy can occupy any portion of the space at any moment. The rules of movement are different on the ocean, especially when you don’t belong there.

I can’t play Subnautica with creature aggression on. I can’t.

Thankfully Dredge has a very subdued horror experience. It’s spooky not necessarily scary. Which is perfect.

Dredge has so many elements that make for a good spooky fishing story.

Mysterious ocean? ✅

Mutant fish? ✅

Old people who’ve seen everything? ✅

BIG FISH WITH BIG TEETH? ✅

People randomly going insane? ✅

It’s all here baby. And I love it.

You start the game having lost your old boat and washed up in the town of Greater Marrow. The mayor is kind enough to supply you with a new boat and you venture out onto the sea and encounter increasingly worse Lovecraftian horrors.

The fishing is simple, but really fun. Mutant fish are probably the most satisfying to catch. They sell for more money and have a low drop rate in comparison to their normal counterparts. Getting one is like getting an onion ring in your fries. 🍟 So good!

They’re designed well too. I love how some of them are cute and some are GROSS:

Like look at this precious boy. I actually think that’s very cute. The face and the hooked nose are adorable. It looks like a lock pick. Love it. (Too bad takings these out of the water instantly kills them!)

And then there’s this guy:

Now that’s just an old fashioned nasty boy! Love it.

Dredge as a whole is a really pretty game with a lot of diverse locations to visit. My favorite visual in the game is that no matter where you’re at on the open ocean you can always see the lighthouse in the middle of the map. Even at night. It’s eerie and comforting.

Dialogue can be hit or miss with these smaller titles, but in Dredge you are invested in the world and the people you talk to. The game is just plain interesting, people speak cryptically but are honest generally. You get the sense that things weren’t always like the way it is now. Weird or bad things happen to people and you’re not quite sure why. And you want to know! On top of the solid fishing that’s what keeps you going in Dredge.

Dredge is technically an open world experience. There are quests, people to visit, and straight out the gate you could go explore the high seas!

But it really is better to stay home and fish for a few days. The game is… decent at explaining itself. Most things were covered with exception for how sanity works. A little bit more flavor text would’ve been nice. I had to google sanity and what triggers it (other than just being out at night).

Though I suppose horror is also about learning these things on the fly. If it prepped you for the scares that’d be missing the point, huh?

There are… enemies. But running into one is more like, “God DAMNIT my boat! 😡 ” And less “HOLY SHIT WHAT IS THAT? 😱”

Not a complaint. Even the enemies ruining your boat isn’t that annoying. Most of the time, your boat being damaged is your fault for not being careful or managing your sanity. So when you lose fish from being damaged you go “Why did I do that?”. I like it when the game is built well enough for mistakes to be obviously the player’s fault. The boat controls well and it upgrades over time so you know when you’re venturing out a little too far from town to be safe.

Though the enemies can be dastardly. My favorite one I’m not going to tell you about. Because if you play Dredge I want it to catch you off guard like it did for me.

Also you get powers as you find relics for a collector. So that’s rad.

The one thing I don’t like, but I get it, is the paranoia rocks that show up when your sanity lowers. Especially when an enemy is going after you. That’s messed up man. But also hilarious.

But it’s only hilarious when it happens to you. Not me. 😂

The only spoiler I want to give away, because I was lucky enough to be told this early myself: Don’t talk to the hooded cultists until you are ready. They uh… die if you don’t do the missions on time and apparently have the best stat books in the game. The stat books are awesome in general. And it gives you an excuse to talk to everyone multiple times.

You can also find research parts to unlock new equipment for your boat. And of course the boat is upgradable with old shipwreck parts you can find around the area. The game is called Dredge after all, not Fishing. You are given a Dredge machine to fish up relics, treasures, and boat parts. Upgrading and getting new equipment is well spaced out and satisfying. Money is easy to obtain as long as you have the right equipment and know the right spots. But I don’t feel like I have money in too much excess either which is awesome. The upgrades requiring parts you have to dredge up really help pace the game.

Other than that, Dredge is a simple short experience. The story is mysterious, sad, and often bittersweet. Dredge is largely a story about overcoming tragedy and pushing forward to do the healthy thing for yourself (and others). To not allow the continued suffering.

I have a soft spot for titles like this. Dredge really is wildly unique in the sea of gaming. That’s not a knock against other games, but when I see something this different it makes me want to support it! You know?

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huaqqiu · 1 year

Text

I've wanted to get this badly written fic off my notes, so here I am. Not beta-ed so just excuse if I have tonssss of errors which I'm sure I do have. And its quite short for the first chap soooo....

Its my very first Tumblr post so please go easy on me!

If you have any improvement you'd want on my writing, I'd gladly listen.

Dni if you don't like the ship.

• Synopsis •

Zhongli, during an adventure with the traveler, gets cursed by an unknown mechanism created by a sorcerer from Khaenri'ah. Without any knowledge of this "curse", Zhongli carries on his mortal life, not knowing that this was a curse that would slowly feed off his memories.

A mysterious domain had appeared on Bishui plain. Smooth, even crystal stairs leading to the main door, glistening with a blue hue. There were small unreadable texts circling around it, looking like random scribbles. These were but actually ancient texts.

Somehow this language is unique to majority of locals in Tevyat. Unlike the more known language that is being used in the present days, this ancient language is only known and familiar to those born in Khaenri'ah.

Since the ruin is sealed by the ancient language, it is most likely dangerous. Seeing such a domain where you have no idea of such dangers you will or will be facing is better not be opened.

But of course there are ignorant people who are curious of such things, even if its dangerous, curiosity kills the cat.

This domain was first discovered by a fisherman. As he was carrying the fishes he had caught on the afternoon, he had spotted the unusual blue door and approched it cautiously. Upon curiosity, he touched the gate. This gate had released a electric shock which a mere mortal cannot withstand. After being shocked, his body went limp and soon gradually lost consciousness.

His unconscious body was soon found by his wife who was worried sick since he did not coming home on that night.

She had seen her husband lying limp on the grassland. In a hurry and anxiety, she rushed to her husband only to find him unresponsive. He wouldn't wake up. Because of this, the wife had called their neighbours to alert the village doctor.

Since people have huddled up helping her husband, some had approached the domain. She warned, frightingly, telling them that its that door that caused her husband to be like this. She had a bad feeling about it.

Even after being checked by the village doctor, the fisherman never woke up again. His pulse beats, but his consciousness stayed asleep, no one knows when he'll ever wake up.

It didn't take long for certain rumors to circulate all around liyue about this mysterious domain. Liyuens were saying its cursed or even the cause for some deaths in Bishui plain. A lot were superstitious about this, demanding an answer from the Qixing

The obnoxious rumors got to the ears of the Qixing, and of course they had to do something fast.

They asked the traveler to investigate, prizing him with a large sum of mora and luxuries if completed.

After all, the image of the Qixing depends on him.

Aether knocks twice on the sandalwood door, patiently waiting for the consultant's permission to enter the room.

There was a small fragrant scent that creeped into his nose. Quite pleasant, but he couldn't point his finger on what the scent was.

"Come in"

Aether and paimon enters the small office. A whiff of incense captured their sense of smell."Wow Zhongli, your place really smells.. earth-like!" Paimon exclaims.

Everything in the office was simple, just like Zhongli liked it to be. All was cherished and carefully placed. From the expensive jades to the small trinkets on the bookshelf.

"Zhoooongli!"

as Paimon followed Aether walk to the other room connected to the main door, she spins and tumbles around on the air. Small stars sparkling, following her wherever she flew.

Zhongli looks refined as always. His unwrinkled brown coat, an earring on his right ear, and chocolate colored hair fading ember. Topped off with a carefully brushed stroke of red rouge on his eyes.

Zhongli turns to look at Aether, slowly putting down the documents he was examining. "Is there anything I can do to help you, traveler?"

"I apologize if i had disturbed your work."

The blonde says, looking apologetic.

"No, you had not. I was merely scanning some papers Director Hu had told me to work on." Zhongli assures.

Looking at Aether whos in deep thought, he figures out what he's here for.

"You must be here because of the domain which people have been causing a ruckus on."

He eyes at Aether,

"I suppose the Qixing sent you to investigate on it."

"Uhm.... yes, you're right.."

"How did you know?"

Zhongli says, slowly tapping on the paper Infront of him with his gloved hands.

"The walls in Liyue have ears."

He looks at Zhongli quite embarrassed.

His face looking a tad red.

Aether hadn't really asked the consultant for anything, after finding out he was Rex Lapis, even a small favour. But since he wasn't familiar with ancient codexs and mechanisms, Aether really had to ask.

"Ah, its just that, you're familiar with mechanisms that are really old. I might need your help in this Domain. But don't worry I'll give you half of the prize given by the Qixing"

The older man chuckles, his smile turning warm. "I'd gladly oblige, no need to half the prize given to you. I'll be happy to help."

Aether smiles, thanking Zhongli.

The three then discussed, Aether telling Zhongli the details of the so called 'mysterious' domain.

#tartali #chili genshin impact #zhongli #childe #genshin impact

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jamietxrtt · 2 years

Note

Let's try Untitled 3 because ~mystery~

OH OOPS I SHARED THIS ONE WITH YOU ALREADY LOL (well, part of it, anyway)

this is the one where dr. sharon has a therapy session with jamie around the time of his 25th birthday and he admits how he doesn't feel very grown up and she talks to him about processing childhood trauma as an adult.

here's a snippet, part of which i think you've already read--

And then he turns 18 and moves out of Dad’s house, and it all goes to shit.

Not externally. Externally, he’s in a much better spot than he’s ever been in before. It's just Jamie himself who goes to shit.

Because suddenly that picture of himself he’d been careful to construct— dutiful, dedicated, disciplined— falls the fuck apart. He’s still dedicated to football, of course, still keeps his weight in check and trains harder than anyone else he knows, but his hedonism rages. He parties hard, he drops thousands of dollars on things he'll never need, he shows off the cruel words he’s been sharpening in the dark for years, now left plain in the light of day. On his nineteenth birthday, he gets drunk— really blackout drunk— for the first time, and it’s one of the worst experiences of his life.

After that, Jamie is different. They way people see him is different. They see him as a playboy prick, immature and snotty. Roy’s digs about vanilla vodka and such a child are far from the first such digs Jamie hears, and far from the last.

Things stagnate like that for the next few years— even after Jamie cleans up his act and stops being mean, he knows everyone still looks at him and only sees his profound lack of maturity. Things stay like that, just like that, for years, until…

Until he breaks down sobbing in Roy Kent’s arms in the locker room at Wembley.

See, Jamie hasn't cried— really cried— since he turned 11. He’s teared up, but he always chokes them back down, squashes them back to where they're meant to be. But once the tap turns on it's like it can't stop, and after he's cried once he suddenly can't stop crying— at Disney movies and sad T.V. shows, at funerals and weddings— thank god no one had caught him sobbing in the bathroom at Rebecca’s dads funeral, is all he has to say about that one— at calls and texts from guess fucking who. Everything seems to shake him to his core now, and conjure up tears where none had ever been before.

“I feel like I’m a fucking toddler again, throwing tantrums every other day,” Jamie tells Dr. Sharon. “It’s humiliating. I try to hide as many of them as I can, but…” he shakes his head. “I dunno. I just feel like— kinda, like— like I don’t deserve to turn 25? Like I don’t deserve to be a true proper adult yet, not when I still act like such a child. I just— I don’t know.”

thank you so much for the ask!!! sorry it's one you've kinda already heard about lol, you can send me another if you want a truly new one.

get a snippet of one of my wips

#THANKS FOR THE ASK ILY #sorry its one youve already heard about lol!#my writing

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reges-nemus · 2 years

Text

The small brass bell above the doorway of Martha's Used Books rang softly as I ducked inside. Shaking the rain from my coat I look around at the familiar little shop. Dusty bookcases stand in the soft yellow light produced by the lamps who's shades have been yellowed with age. Lining the shelves is a haphazard collection of printed works, loosely organized by genre and type of publication. The air inside the shop is thick with the scent of old books, that earthy, musty, and acrid scent I've grown to love. It represents a place I feel more at home in than my own apartment. As I take in the tranquility of this wonderful secret place of mine I notice one thing out of place, Martha is not standing in her usual spot behind the counter. No better a match for this place exists apart from her; completely plain, seemingly uninterested in anything except collecting and selling used books, she is a wholly unattractive personification of Martha's Used Books, and in that way she is one my favorite people. Upon stepping closer to the counter however I notice a note, written in Martha's utterly bland handwriting:

'Left for a while, leave your money on the counter along with a note stating the title of the book you purchased. Thank you.'

After a few moments of wandering through the shelves I had a small collection of my own tucked underneath my right arm; an assortment of books and magazines, fiction and nonfiction, various publications pertaining to things I think I would be interested in, books of poetry, heroic tales, mysteries. Slowly making my way back towards the counter a book caught my eye. The text on the spine was faded and hard to read, but I could just make out the title: 'The Hiasarx Account', the name of the author however was impossible to discern. The cover was a red cloth and extremely worn, as if the previous owner had read the book a hundred times. I went to open the book to skim through it, as I do with all the books I am interested in, but noticed the light outside fading. Precariously I propped the stack of books under my arm up against the shelf and pulled my watch from my pocket seeing it was almost half past seven, and that I was almost late. I made my way to the counter and quickly counted out the correct change and hurriedly scribbled the titles of the books I had bought.

I hid the books underneath my coat to protect them from the steady drizzle that had persisted since this morning. Leaping up the steps to my apartment I checked my watch again, five minutes until eight. In my head I was already preparing my apologies to Max for being late when I noticed a note that had been slid between my door and its frame.

'Gabriel, I won't be able to make our meeting this evening at 8. I have no time to explain right now, but all is well. We can meet tomorrow morning at 7 instead.

I apologize for the inconvenience.

Your friend, Max'

Relieved that I would not be late to our meeting I unlocked the door and stepped inside.

Standing in the hall and looking into the small dwelling it was obvious that two completely dissimilar people had lived here, me and my brother, Phillip. While his room was tidy and orderly, mine was chaotic and dishevelled. Books littered nearly every available surface and on the floor next to the bed was a small collection of empty gin bottles. Before his cavalry regiment had been relocated out to California Phillip would often lovingly poke fun at the state of my room, and that of the rest of the apartment, and encourage me to keep things tidy. "Keeping your surroundings tidy will help keep your mind tidy as well, Gabe." he used to tell me. Looking at his room now made me feel a sickening mix between longing for his return and hope that I'd never see him again. My 'untidy mind' is the result of an accident that came about due to his prodding. I have always been one to stay at home or, the few times I have been on vacation, to do quiet and easy things; walks through the country, lunches at small seaside cafes. A few years ago Phillip had insisted that I accompany him on a week-long trip to a ranch where he could teach me to ride a horse, and after one particularly drunken night I relented and agreed to go to this ranch with him. During our first 'lesson' the horse he had chosen for me reared up and threw me, leading to my being in a coma for several days. After I awoke I was fine cognitively, but I had become suspicious and irritable and much more withdrawn than I was before my fall. I spent nearly two months recovering in the hospital, which is where I met Max. He would come in nearly every day to visit an infirm relative of his, and one day sat next to me in the lounge and asked for a cigarette. I found that we had similar personalities so we began a correspondence, and have been friends ever since. He has been gone for a few weeks to visit his sweetheart who lives in Vermont, he wrote towards the end of his stay there that he had proposed and she said yes, and that he had news he wanted to deliver in person when he returned.

Stepping further into my apartment I placed the books I had bought on a bare spot of the kitchen table and made myself something to eat. As I sat down with my food, and my first bottle of gin, I began looking through the books I had bought. I removed them, one by one, from the stack. Some mystery novel, a nonfiction account of someone's travels through British Raj, a magazine about woodworking, and then there it was, that worn red cover with the barely legible text on the spine: 'The Hiasarx Account'. Upon seeing it I immediately began to feel uneasy, my stomach felt knotted and a tingling sensation radiated from my chest out through my extremities. It was as if the book compelled me to read it, but every fiber of my being wanted to resist. I swallowed what was left in the bottle to settle my nerves and I reached for another. These small bottles of gin, barely larger than my hand, had become the only reliable method I found to quiet my 'untidy' mind. I picked up that compelling book and tossed it to the other end of the table, opening instead a book of poetry to try and occupy myself.

A few poems, and another bottle, later I stood up from the table. On unsteady feet, I drained the last of my third bottle and made my way to the fireplace. I set to work, with considerable effort, lighting a fire in hopes of driving out the damp autumn chill that had managed to creep its way inside. Stumbling, I retrieved a few books and my cigarettes from the kitchen and collapsed onto the couch. I lied there for some time before sitting up and examining the books I had grabbed. Suspicion and paranoia froze me as I once again saw that awful red cloth cover. I knew I hadn't grabbed it when I was in the kitchen, it was on the other end of the table! The suspicion slowly gave way to a bubbling, drunken anger, which itself dissolved into that same unease I had felt before, but with my mind now sufficiently dulled I opened this compelling book for the first time.

It felt as though the dense fog that occupied the streets occupied my mind as well. As I carefully descended the stairs to the sidewalk I tried to convince myself that my mind was foggy due to the gin and lack of sleep, but I knew it was because of that horrible and amazing book I had read. I finished it within an hour, and then I read it again, and again, and again until I felt it had become a part of me. My head swam when I threw it into the fireplace and watched as the heat curled the pages and reduced them to ash, but it was no use. The book drifted through my mind as a collection of abstract thoughts and urges, the words merged themselves with my subconscious until they felt as if they had always been there. Only one passage remained concrete: 'From constant chaotic sound comes knowledge, from the darkness light. Doubt exists no longer in the many-become-one, for this is the wisdom of Hiasarx.' This passage became a mantra that I silently repeated without pause as I slowly walked to the riverside park where I was due to meet Max.

When I arrived at the park I pulled my watch from my pocket, twelve minutes before seven. Standing at our usual meeting place near the 9th street entrance made me feel shaky and on edge, and my mind felt more untidy than it had in ages. Thousands of thoughts raced along in the periphery of my awareness, and all of them that I was able to latch onto filled me with nothing but suspicion and doubt. I knew, surely, that every passerby would set upon me and try to kill me, and that was prevented only by my knowing that they would. I could feel them, their probing into my mind and trying themselves to also latch onto my thoughts, attempting to lower my guard and allow them to attack me. I felt like a compressed spring, full of pressure and tension. Reaching into my coat I pulled out a silver colored flask and pressed the opening against my lips, filling my mouth and swallowing, and again, hoping to settle my nerves.

After I had finished drinking I turned to look behind me and nearly screamed with how startled I was. Max was standing right behind me with a boyish smile plastered on his face. He looked as tidy and ordinary as he always had, his light brown hair neatly combed and his glasses sat perfectly on his nose.

"What's wrong buddy?" he asked, "I called your name at least half a dozen times! It's nice to see you!"

I had to suppress a groan as he hugged me, the excitement I felt just yesterday towards our meeting had twisted into a disgust for how happy he was. Grudgingly I returned the embrace, patting him on the back and mumbling some platitude about his being here. Max began to speak as we walked down the paved path that meandered through the trees along the bank of the river, but he and his words seemed distant. My mind was still racing, still full of those formless thoughts and urges which were now begging to be shared. I resisted for as long as I could, I felt like I would burst open if I waited any longer.

Interrupting him, I said, "Max, I need to tell you this. More than anything I need to tell you about this book I read, The Hiasarx Acc-"

"What?" he cut me off, "Gabe, what the hell are you talking about? I'm asking you to be the best man at my wedding and you're asking me about a book?" he continued with an irritated and concerned tone, "Christ, you haven't listened to a thing I said have you?"

"Max, it's just…" I started, trying to form these formless thoughts into words and completely ignoring his objections, "if you read it you'd see. There would be no doubt! It's consumed me! My mind right now is awash with what I've read but I can't put it into words, it's… And how it draws you in! I read the account at least half a dozen times last night! We need to find you a copy, I threw mine into the fire, but we need to find another for you! It would-" I stopped, noticing the mocking and condescending expression on his face. I could feel myself burning with anger, Max said nothing but I could see in his eyes that he thought I was insane.

He had that same investigative and soft tone as he spoke, the same tone one would take when speaking to a scared child, the same tone I remembered doctors so often taking with me, "Gabe, are you alright? I wasn't going to mention it, but I noticed you drinking when I first saw you today. Are you drinking much these days? Have you been getting enough sleep? I remember you saying you had problems with sleep and I just want to…"

His words became distant in my mind again, and it took every bit of self restraint for me not to hit him. He continued on with his mocking and insincere rant about the state of my mind, but I didn't listen and instead turned to walk away, saying out loud for the first time, "'From constant chaotic sound comes knowledge, from the darkness light. Doubt exists no longer in the many-become-one, for this is the wisdom of Hiasarx. You'll see Max! I'll find you a copy of the account and you'll see that I'm not insane!"

I wandered for hours, my body moved on its own as my mind was again overcome with those hazy and nebulous thoughts. I reveled in them, hanging on to one for as long as I could before I had to let go and once again enter reality for a moment before grabbing onto another. These brief moments of reality were horrible, and filled with the same terror and suspicion I felt standing at the entrance to the park. During one of these moments however, I recognized that I was on 5th street only a few blocks away from Martha's, so I clung to reality and began nervously heading that way. There were very few people out due to the weather, there is almost always a constant light drizzle here in the last weeks of autumn, but I knew the few that were out sought to either murder me or infiltrate my mind and siphon my thoughts away from me. Avoiding their mocking gazes I finally arrived at Martha's and stepped inside, the familiar ringing of the brass bell as the door opened helped to settle my nerves.

"Good afternoon Gabriel," Martha droned politely in her monotone voice, "did you enjoy the books you bought yesterday?"

"Sure. Yes, um.. Yes! Yes I did, very much so, thank you." I replied nervously, unsure if she would seek to attack me like the others had. "Actually I'm here to ask about where you acquired a certain book I purchased, 'The Hiasarx Account'. You see, I accidentally spilled coffee all over the book and ruined it! I'm hoping that wherever you bought it from might have another copy." I added, lying.

"Hold on a moment" she said, pulling out a ledger and running her finger down the columns. As she searched through the ledger I took a deep breath, my nose filled with that familiar smell of old books I had smelled yesterday and so many days before. The calming effect, while slight, was almost immediate. The thoughts that had been racing through my head seemed to slow, the immense pressure and tension I felt began to ease a bit, and I no longer felt as if Martha might attack me.

She flipped through a few more pages before speaking again, "Here it is, 'The Hiasarx Account', purchased three weeks ago, October 14th, 1928, from the Caldwell Memorial Library. They were selling books that they considered too worn to be used in the library anymore, they may have another copy."

"Thank you, Martha" I said as I turned and began to leave, filling my nose with that familiar scent once again before venturing back out.

For the next half hour or so the calming effect lasted, but ended almost as soon as I opened the door to my apartment and walked inside. Nearly immediately after sitting on my couch I collapsed into a restless sleep that was filled with delirious dreams. Visions of people standing in a circle around a strange symbol formed in my mind, their hands merging together, the flesh seeming to bubble and swell. The entire odd rite was presided over by an entity whose face and hands hurt to look at, and it spoke in a grating language that sounded like rocks being drug over a paved surface. This restless delirium persisted through the rest of the night.

III

Standing in front of the mirror the next morning revealed how dishevelled I looked, a thick stubble and wild hair framed my worn and sleep deprived face. After taking a long drink from the bottle of gin I had brought with me, I studied my features a bit more closely; eyes bloodshot and sunken in, hollow and pallid cheeks. I thought I looked like a walking corpse, some half-alive man. My mental state was fairing no better. Every creak and groan from the building, footsteps on the stairs in the hall, the occasional shout and automobile engine outside, all of it set me on edge and seemed to amplify the gnawing sensation of those hazy thoughts that persisted in my head since I had opened that horrible book. Managing to comb my hair into a semblance of normality and after washing my face I took another drink, desperate to numb my mind. Reaching down, I picked up my razor and examined it, dragging my thumb along the blade until a rivulet of blood trickled down my hand and fell into the sink. I folded the blade back into the handle and slid the razor into my coat pocket as I left my apartment. A note fell from my door when it opened, a small cream colored sheet folded into a square with 'Gabe' written on the front. I recognized Max's handwriting and unfolded the paper, reading:

"I stopped by last night at around 10 while on my way home, but you didn't answer. I hope you were asleep and not out somewhere drinking. I'm worried about you, you're reminding me of how you were when we first met and you were still being held in the hospital. I'll be here again at the same time tonight.

Yours truly, Max."

Immediately I ripped the note into pieces and tossed it onto the floor, I could practically hear the mockery and condescension in his voice as I read. I knew exactly what he meant by saying he'd like to 'help me', I had heard it from doctors before. Their help would be to restrain me and lock me up for months again, and that is something I would never allow to happen.

Fortunately for my mental state there were even fewer people out today than there were yesterday, and those that were on the street seemed to realize that I already knew of their plans to attack me or to tamper with my thoughts. I continuously gripped the razor in my pocket as they walked by however, in anticipation that they might think I've let my guard down. After walking through the cold autumn drizzle, and almost completely draining my flask, I had finally made it to the Caldwell Memorial Library. It was a large and imposing gray stone building, with massive columns and long shallow steps up to the doors.

Walking inside I brushed the rain from my coat and cautiously examined the interior, a dull gray light filtered in through the high windows and mixed with the soft yellow light produced by the lamps. The silence that permeated every corner of this building was only occasionally broken by the soft shuffle of feet and by that constant scraping and gnawing of my thoughts. Those horrible and vague thoughts that had constantly plagued my mind since reading that book, that book which I now sought to show to Max and fill his mind with the same thoughts. He would learn that I was perfectly sane, that these thoughts, these wonderful and awful thoughts, held truths that were undeniable and unexplainable. He would face the same attacks which threatened me every time one of those despicable people tried to stare into my eyes, but he would withstand them and seek to share his thoughts with those who doubted him as well. I tightened my grip around the handle of my razor, keeping it concealed in my coat pocket, as I stepped closer to the small desk near the doors.

"Excuse me sir," I spoke to the small and balding man who sat behind the desk, "would this library happen to have a copy of 'The-"

"Check the catalogue, sir" he replied rudely, looking up at me with a notably insect-like face.

"And where might one find the catalogue?" I asked as I stared intently into his small eyes, thoughts of slashing his throat filled my mind which I quickly pushed aside.

"It's over on that table, sir" he said as he pointed across the room, "there are slashes through-"

At this point it was as if I was underwater, his voice seemed distant and muffled. His mentioning of the word slash right after my mind was filled with thoughts of slashing his throat could not be coincidence. I felt myself trembling with fear and paranoia and anger. I knew he had managed to enter my mind and was now mocking me, daring me to follow through on those violent thoughts that had crowded my mind just a moment ago. He saw the exact moment I had let my guard down. I stepped away from the desk and pointed at him.

"I hope you know that I can see through this facade of yours! I know what you were trying to do!" I said to him in a voice much too loud for a library, and his only response was to stare at me with those small and probing eyes of his.

"Sir, I…" he started, but I had already turned and walked over to the table on which the library's catalogue sat. Picking up the thick, paperbound volume, I opened it to the section labeled 'H' and ran my finger down the columns. About halfway down the page I saw it, 'Hiasarx Account, The- copies: one copy, sold or destroyed'. My heart sank, there was no other place I knew of that would have a copy. I tossed the catalogue onto the table in my frustration and sighed before picking it back up, hoping to see if it listed the name of the author so I might have a better chance at finding another copy. What I saw on the page that had opened when I picked up the catalogue filled me with equal parts elation and terror, and part of me wanted dearly to immediately turn and leave the library, forgetting everything that had happened these past few days. That part of me was quickly subdued by the ever present thoughts that still occupied my mind. The first entry on the page read 'Liber Rituum Hiasarx- copies: one copy, manuscripts and rare books room- author: unknown'. I started at once for the rare books room, I had been in this library many times and knew exactly where it was.

Carefully I opened the door, relieved to see no one inside the rather small room. I locked the door behind me as I stepped inside, ensuring no interruptions while I checked the shelves. Some of the more valuable books and almost all of the manuscripts sat locked behind glass, but luckily the volume I was looking for did not; it was old, with vellum pages and wooden covers that were completely unassuming. As I pulled it from the shelf my mind swam, it felt as if my entire being was dependent upon, and had led up to, my reading of this book. The title page was plain, no signature from the author, no location of publication, no dates, just a plainly calligraphed Latin title. I turned the page and was met with a script I had never seen before. It resembled Arabic or Brahmi but was neither, and much to my surprise I was able to read this horrid language, the foul characters seeming to embed themselves within me. As I read I entered some kind of trance, and the knowledge I gathered from this tome wormed its way inside me in the same manner as what I read in the Account. I thought of the dream I had, the, now understood, Hiasarxian rite, the symbol of the many-become-one, the strange entity which presided over it, that priest of Hiasarx Itself. I understood it. I knew what had to be done.

I set out from the library, determined to see my plan through to completion. It played in my mind on a loop, that profane Hiasarxian rite that would bring It into existence. Max was needed for this plan, to show him that I'm not insane and to be able to share with him the wonders that have blessed my mind since I read the Account. Another person would be needed as well, someone to act, willingly or otherwise, as a conduit for the Hiasarxian priest, and to become the seed, the start of the many-become-one. As I walked towards Max's apartment I kept my hand wrapped firmly around the handle of my razor.

Nearly an hour later I was walking up the steps to Max's room. I had grabbed a pen and sheet of paper from a table in the lobby downstairs; I had no desire to speak to Max, to let him try and dissuade me from my current path. When I reached his door I paused, and decided who the other participant should be as I wrote:

"Max, I'm sorry I missed you last night, but I won't be home tonight either. I'm planning something at Martha's shop and would love for you to join us. I'm sure you've been there before, but if not it's near the corner of 12th and Willow. I'm sorry for my behavior recently, and you're right, I haven't quite been myself. I see this as nothing more than a brief upset however, and I'm set on overcoming it. I thank you for your concern and hope to see you tonight at Martha's at around 10.

Your friend, Gabriel."

I folded the paper and carefully tucked it between the door and its frame, just above the knob. An excitement and terror, similar to what I felt in the library, washed over me as I turned to leave. The culmination of my existence was dependent on this plan I was to set into motion, and that note was the first step. There was no turning back from this point. I could feel the sweat forming between my palm and the razor.

I had stopped at the small store I frequented where the owner sold alcohol despite the prohibition, and bought my usual bottle of gin. I stepped outside into the fading light and checked my watch, it was nearly eight. I hurried to Martha's which was only a few blocks away. I paid almost no attention to the people on the street, even though I could tell from their looks that they sought to take my thoughts and end my plan by killing me. My grip on the razor grew tighter.

When I opened the door to Martha's I pushed slowly, and reached above my head to silence the ringing of the small bell. As I stepped inside I took a long drink from the bottle I had bought, all I could smell was the gin on my breath. I could hear movement in the back of the shop, and saw Martha was absent from her usual place behind the counter. With determination in my stride I made my way towards the back, grabbing a heavy paperweight from the counter. Silently I walked between the bookcases, and pushed open the door to the back storeroom and office. Martha turned as I entered.

"Gabe? I didn't hear-" she began before I brought the paperweight down onto her head.

"You'll forgive me Martha, you'll forgive me when you see what awaits us." I said softly to her now unconscious body.

It took nearly an hour and a half to prepare everything for the rite. I bound Martha's hands and feet with the cord from her telephone, and drug her into the front of the store, placing her behind the counter. My body seemed to move almost independently of my mind as I continued, pushing the bookcases to the walls and drawing the symbol of the many-become-one on the floor. The pressure in my head became immense as I looked at the finished symbol, a series of straight lines that joined and terminated in a spiral. It was as if I felt every possible emotion; terror, joy, sorrow, anger, regret, excitement, they all coursed through me at an extreme speed.

After I finished I walked behind the counter, Martha was awake now and her muffled screams could be heard through the gag I placed in her mouth. As I pulled her into the center of the room, before the symbol on the floor, I began the Hiasarxian chants that had been burned into me during my trance at the library. I chanted in that horrid and wonderful, scraping and grinding language. That tongue which both mocked and soothed, tormented and blessed, plagued with crippling paranoia and enlightened with all revealing enlightenment. My chanting continued as the bell above the door rang and Max stepped inside. He stood frozen as my razor cut smoothly through Martha's throat, her blood spilling onto that sacred symbol. He would see, finally, he would see.

#horror #writing #short story

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specialagentartemis · 3 years

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I see this in the tag from time to time: I listened to Wolf 359/(other podcasts), now I’m looking for new podcast recs!

Wolf 359 is truly one-of-a-kind, but I have fallen hard for audio drama podcasts since, so here are some that I’ve really liked that have similar feelings in different ways.

(50% are set in space. 50% have POC leads. 83%-100% are queer depending on whether you count on-screen or also word-of-god canonicity. All are great.)

Plain text below the cut; links to all the shows mentioned are in the notes!

Title slide: Help! I Listened To Wolf 359 And Don’t Know What To Listen To Next! An(other) Audio Drama Recommendation Guide.

Slide 2: I want to listen to something else like Wolf 359…

Wolf 359 was truly one-of-a-kind, an amazing sci-fi podcast. And so many of us have felt the feeling “Now that I’ve listened to Wolf 359, what should I listen to next that will give me the same feeling?” This is the audio drama recommendation guide for you! But the fundamental question is…

… What are you looking for more of?

Slide 3: The Setting. A space station or spaceship in deep space; what’s better than that?

Girl In Space by Sarah Rhea Warner

A scientist all alone on a space station overgrown with plants, orbiting a very strange star…

… or at least, all alone until the corporate ship that has owned the station all along shows up

Cinematic, fast-paced, like a YA novel in audio drama form

The Strange Case of Starship Iris by Jessica Best

Violet Liu, a shy scientist, when her research ship explodes under mysterious circumstances and hope seems lost, gets rescued…

… by a spaceship full of smugglers.

They uncover a conspiracy about the evil space government.

Ensemble cast, fighting space fascism, soft found family vibes.

There are of course tons more I haven’t listened to yet – We Fix Space Junk, The Orphans, StarTripper!!, Marsfall… But also, not podcasts but, if you liked Wolf 359 I highly recommend watching Babylon 5 and Star Trek: Deep Space 9.

Slide 4: The Premise

A small crew + AI on an isolated research base, linked to their commanding corporation by radio only, but Command is responding less and less and won’t explain what’s happening, and the secrets and dangers are rising and the crew has to deal with it alone…

Primordial Deep by Jordan Cobb

Small, handpicked, woefully unprepared crew sent to an underwater base to study the mysterious reappearance of prehistoric sea creatures

The deep-underwater base is called the “Tiamat” if that gives you any clue to how well it goes

Thriller-drama with horror elements, and gorgeous prose in monologues and descriptions

Think “Wolf 359 but underwater” and you get a good sense of the plot and tone

Micro-Cosmos by Lauren Tucker and Jesse Smith

A small crew of a terraforming unit are surveying a distant planet. Things go wrong.

Starts very funny and fun, with engaging characters and banter; gets steadily more serious and dramatic.

Slide 5: Communicating with an Alien Intelligence

Whether unfathomable reality-warping entities or natural alien intelligences, sometimes they are here to judge humanity and you need to go through the slow process of learning to communicate with them.

The Last Show by Danny Roa and Clay McDermott

Post-apocalyptic comedy about a college radio station broadcasting into the end of the world.

The funniest podcast I’ve ever listened to—perfect balance of comedy and plot, and never goes the Audio Drama Route of descending into heartbreak! Stays upbeat and funny!

The Power Of Friendship, between human friends as well as otherworldly apocalyptic entity friends.

Tides by Jesse Schuschu and Ayla Taylor

Grouchy, stranded biologist wanders an oceanic alien world, is in awe of the alien life there.

Scientific ethics! Deep attention to alien biology! Serious consideration of alien thought and communication!

Bonus: Diary of a Space Archivist by Beccy Stirrup does interesting things with this concept as well!

Slide 6: Aliens Stole My Identity

Can’t have shit in space

Janus Descending by Jordan Cobb

Tightly-plotted, deeply chilling, atmospheric space horror

Self-contained stand-alone mini-series

Lyrical and beautiful prose, ancient alien ruins, and a doomed relationship.

Get sniped by hearing a familiar voice actor.

The Pasithea Powder by Molly Olguín and Jackie Hedeman

Two long-time friends—one a war hero, one a war criminal—uncover government secrets after losing a space war

Hits you right off the bat with space war crimes and memory manipulation

The aliens are kind of a surprise admittedly

Some of the messiest, most engaging, most complex characters who are also bisexual disasters in a sweet but deeply emotionally messed up slow-burn romance.

Slide 7: The Long Story Short Productions Crew

Gabriel Urbina, Sarah Shachat, and Zach Valenti, along with Alan Rodi, Jared Paul, and a host of fabulous actor friends, have a distinctive writing, directing, and musical style. Everything they have made is pure gold. And you’ll definitely recognize many familiar voices.

Zero Hours

A seven-episode anthology series about the end of the world… or, seven ends of the world.

Gorgeous, deeply cathartic, sometimes funny but usually melancholy, really puts you through the emotional wringer.

From the past to the future, historical fiction to sci-fi, as eras, relationships, worldviews, and worlds end and begin again. (I’m going to cry again as I write this)

Unseen

Their current ongoing project—an urban fantasy anthology series exploring “the Unseen World.”

Each episode is a dramatic monologue (due to COVID) but they work amazingly to reveal different facets of this cool, sometimes eerie, sometimes funny, always fascinating magical world.

Slide 8: Just, Really Good Podcasts

Expanding casts of complex, well-written and excellently-acted characters. Edge-of-your-seat plotting. Characters making really bad decisions. Humor, heartbreak, and mystery. These aren’t much like Wolf 359 in most ways except that they’re really, really good.

Arden by Emily VanDerWerff, Sara Ghaleb, and Christopher Dole

A fictional true crime podcast / murder mystery story (with some familiar voices!)

In the spirit of “Serial” and “S-Town,” thematically investigating just how True Crime Ruins Lives

FANTASTIC characters, twisty mysteries, humor, the mundane horror of what people will do to each other, high society and small towns both with their dark secrets, and messy sapphic protags.

When you get what’s going on you will go “OH,”

Greater Boston by Alexander Danner and Jeff Van Dreason

A magical realism/slipstream story, an ensemble cast and mosaic of stories about community.

Specifically, the community that is the Boston subway seceding to become its own city, with all the over-the-top political drama that ensues. Do you like public transit? You’ll like this.

Also, ghosts, and crystal balls, and serious indictment of redlining and housing inequality.

(I have cried listening to this show more than once.)

All background images sourced from the public domain from NASA.

#Wolf 359 #w359 #The Strange Case of Starship Iris #podcasts #podcast recs #not gonna tag every show I mentioned here because don't want to fill up their tags hah #Okay gotta go eat but I'll reblog with the links after dinner

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real-jane · 3 years

Text

nftn: a kiss to build a dream on

(bucky barnes x female!reader, shield)

summary: y/n comes home from her mission, and she and bucky must reckon with what three weeks apart brought out in them.

warnings: first kisses, admission of feelings, both still real dumb, mention of experiments done w/ bucky, reader is v dramatic/ready to fight anyone who lays a finger on bucky

word count: 6,795

a/n: part three of 'nostalgia for the new'! this comes directly after part two, chronologically, and sets up a few possible storylines for future updates... including but not limited to margarita night with sam.

series masterlist - masterlist

You met Agent Coulson in the hotel lobby with your bags (dressed to the nines in varying shades of beige solids, so plain that they looked luxurious, to keep up your cover as heiress and driver. The crutches only added to your mysterious allure, especially considering that your sunglasses engulfed half your face, and you still wore one red-soled heel on your good leg); Coulson took one look at you and chuckled.

What was it about that man that made it seem like he just knew things? Was it the trustworthy dad vibes? The fact that he only had wrinkles where smiles pulled at his skin? Regardless, you were visibly joyful, and Coulson escorted you back to the airport with a knowing look on his face.

Bucky had stayed with you on video the night prior until your eyes were too heavy to stay open. It made it that much sweeter when Sam’s photo of him was waiting for you upon waking. Immediately, that became Bucky’s contact photo: smiling at you on the other end of the phone, watching sleep take over.

Even better than that was the text messages which accompanied it. From... Bucky! ...Sort of.

Sitting aboard the quinjet, ignoring Coulson’s routine announcements as he checked the jet’s specs, you reread the texts over and over.

12:47 pm

B: Dear Y/n -

B: (This is Sam, Bucky is dictating. He will not let me teach him how to text you. Apparently only you get that privilege. Please know the restraint it took not to type in all capital letters, but please read as if I did.)

B: Good morning. Let me know your ETA, I would appreciate as much advanced notice as possible.

B: I have been approved to sit in on your debrief with Fury, and then I will escort you to Medical.

B: What would you like to do after that? Let me know.

B: This is kinda long. Okay.

B: Miss you. See you soon. (he looks SO SAD Y/ N)

B: --Bucky Barnes (and Sam helped)

God, you couldn’t wait to get home to them--either of them. Sam deserved his own personal taco truck for all of this, not just a bottle of tequila… getting Bucky to text, kinda: CHECK. Keeping him occupied and safe: CHECK.

It helped keep you from lingering on the mission you were leaving behind. The longer the mission, the harder the circumstances, it never failed… but those girls were safe. You succeeded. Your injuries were absolutely acceptable when weighed against the stakes, even if you still felt stupid for a clumsy error which caused them. The way your knees had shaken after listening to a man choke to death on his own fluids, desperately trying to keep the knife sheathed at your thigh even though the buckle had broken in the struggle… the brief moment you had wondered, as the man’s arm cut off circulation to your throat, if you’d ever see Bucky again… but you weren’t going to dwell. He was waiting for you. You made it out.

Calculating the time in your head, it was still the wee hours of the morning in DC. You would reply when you knew he’d be awake. The man never had his ringer turned on unless he was expecting contact, but just the screen lighting up in his pitch black room would be enough to rouse him.

You let your head fall back against the jump seat. Might as well catch a few hours of sleep to make time pass by faster. Keep your thoughts from turning dark again.

***

About halfway home, your phone buzzed in your hand, waking you up.

SAM: Morning, Sunshine!

SAM: By the blinking of your beacon, something wicked this way comes!

SAM: If Bucky wasn’t a super-soldier he’d need readers after staring at your blue dot on his phone. I’m gonna spare you a photo, I’ve been too generous in his trying time.

“You are way too chipper in the mornings. But you are correct—about four hours to go, according to my trusty pilot. ETA 11:38.”

SAM: Excellent.

SAM: Hope your flight is smooth and Coulson doesn’t make a liar outta me.

“Ps. How’d Bruce ok Bucky coming to my physical?”

SAM: Oh, you owe me a bottle of tequila for that. He was gonna uphold that ban for good. I’ll tell you what I sacrificed over the margaritas you’re buying.

“Lol. Can’t wait.”

“Can you do me one last massive favor and then I’ll never ask you for anything else ever again for the rest of my life until next time I’m away on assignment? 😇”

SAM: You’re a menace.

SAM: To me specifically.

SAM: My best friend is currently cradling his phone like it’s a baby bird so couldn’t you text him and THEN ask me for a favor?

“Samuel Elizabeth.”

SAM: I can only do so much, you know.

“I’m gonna want to be alone with him after I’ve been cleared, and I wanna give him something.”

SAM: Okay gross.

“Not like that, ya perve.”

SAM: What part of this is the favor you’re asking for.

“The record store on 14th and T st. has something on hold for me. Can you go pick it up?”

SAM: I could be persuaded.

SAM: I’m assuming this is so you can sweep him off his feet/use the L-word, etc

“Which L-word might that be, Wilson? Because I know you don’t mean that one. The first time I say that word and Bucky’s name in the same sentence, I sure as hell ain’t saying it to you.”

SAM: *sprints to store*

SAM: STAY WITH ME BUCK. SHE’S COMING HOME AND SHES GOT PLANS.

“Seriously though. THANK YOU. Also? Make him eat before I land.”

SAM: Damn, woman. What DO you have planned?

Oh. Ever so many things.

“Thanks Sam. Do you think he got ANY sleep last night??”

SAM: Judging by how many cups of coffee he’s had? No.

SAM: I think his blood is just coffee now.

You flicked your thumb back to home and brought up the list of message threads in your inbox. ‘ICE Sgt. James Bucky Barnes’ was the second one in the queue. You pressed his name and readied a message. What to say, in response to what he dictated to Sam? What did you want to do?

Something had shifted for you after last night.

It wasn’t as if you didn’t know how you felt about him before that. It had taken approximately one hour in his presence the week you met him properly to find that your heart was irreversibly changed. He was precious to you in a way nobody ever had been. No amount of dating had ever afforded you one iota of joy like what you felt the day you realized how devoted he was to you. Bucky Barnes would sooner die than hurt you.

He was also as skittish as a baby deer. A gentle, but brooding deer. Or maybe a pitbull rescue--bad reputation, would look adorable in footie pajamas. At all times grumpy, except to you. But Bucky had never really framed you and feelings in the same sentence, beyond “thanks, doll--I don’t deserve it, but thanks all the same” whenever you did something nice for him.

Clearly, he was fearful of something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. Maybe the prospect of dating was too much for him. Natasha had told you that she had made him a profile on a dating app in the early days of living on the compound, and he hadn’t spoken to her for a week. Bucky operated at Bucky’s pace. Or maybe it was just different with you? Even though you often caught him staring at your lips, and his hands lingered at your curves reverently without being ungentlemanly, Bucky was not the sort to take advantage of your comfort with his touch. You got the feeling that man would spend another seventy years tamping down whatever feelings he had for you at the risk of scaring you off, because being so close and yet not together was better than never seeing you again.

Sam had hinted as much when he was in what he called ‘the Tequila Zone’ during Nat’s birthday gathering. You had asked him in a vulnerable moment if he saw what you did--Bucky making you the center of his life, because he maybe had feelings for you. Sam had shrugged, but leaned forward conspiratorially.

“Baby, that man would willingly step in front of a bus to keep you from getting hit--I think we both know that--but that don’t mean he’d tell you why. I doubt anybody knows what goes on in his head. You’ve come the closest, so. If he hasn’t told you, he ain’t telling a soul.”

You had watched Bucky’s ministrations in the kitchen as Sam whispered to you on the couch. The man had made you a sidecar—proper mixology and everything, complete with a curl of orange peel—and filled a tiny plate with appetizers, which he then dutifully delivered before sitting on the floor, empty-handed of any rations of his own. It hadn’t even occurred to him. He wasn’t being social, anyway. It had taken him quite a lot of convincing to even come, and he liked most of the people in attendance. He was sitting within arm’s-reach of you, on the floor, as quiet as anything. Bucky had watched you take your first sip, and your hum of approval seemed to be sustenance enough. He had smiled shyly, and sat back, content.

You had tugged in his earlobe softly in an unverbalized thank you, a gesture of affection you had developed over time. Sometimes words were too much between you. Silent affirmations became second nature.

Sam had shaken his head at you as if to say what more proof do you need?

Which is why you knew that you would need to be direct with Bucky about your feelings, and follow your confession up with familiar touches that he recognized as things you only did with him. You didn’t press your hip to Steve’s when he hugged you. Sam didn’t get kisses on the temple in farewell. You didn’t slip your arms into Tony’s hoodie pocket when you were cold, fitting your forehead into the crook of his neck.

Bucky’s body was safe. God only knew how he’d let you in, past the wall he built to keep the world out.

Once upon a time, you would’ve thought feeling safe with a man just wasn’t possible. But your college boyfriend wasn’t James Buchanan Barnes, and you wanted to share things with him that the lack of a formalized relationship prevented. Like sharing a bed.

The thought of going to sleep next to Bucky made tears pearl in the corners of your eyes. You had fallen asleep on his shoulder or tucked into his side a million times, but… he didn’t even sit on your bed if he came to your room, and when you stumbled into his after a jarring nightmare, you’d always find that he was sleeping on the floor. He’d tuck you into his bed with a spare blanket and pillow, brush your hair from your forehead, and resume his post on the rug.

And then… the very real thought trickled in of how his softness would translate into deeper intimacy. Your whole body lit up like a Christmas tree around him anyway. He’d be the first in a long time, but there wasn’t anybody with the kind of magnetism you had with him. It wouldn’t matter if you got nervous or embarrassed because it would be Bucky holding you, touching your skin. Even more than he already did.

You were going to convince him that he deserved softness. With you. In every way. Maybe not all in one day… and definitely not with the kind of jet lag you were about to experience… but soon.

Coming clean to Bucky would make every moment of this mission worth it.

“Y/n, I don’t want to alarm you but we have company.” Coulson pointed over your shoulder. For a moment, your heart dropped in panic. Couldn’t be a bogey, god forbid when you were on your way home with plans—but when you saw what Coulson pointed to, you nearly cried.

“Doesn’t appear to be hostile.”

“No,” you choked. “It’s Red Wing.” The tiny red drone was gliding alongside the quinjet, keeping pace easily.

“Director Fury wouldn’t be happy that Wilson’s using his tech to follow us,” he said, but that telltale amusement colored his tone.

“Fury can stuff it.” You held up your phone and snapped a photo of the mini plane. Sam Eagle received it moments later.

“Thank you for this.”

SAM: All due respect, I didn’t do it for you.

This time, he did send a photo. He was the focus of the image, but over his shoulder, Bucky dead-eyed the camera. Sam’s broad smile was balanced by Bucky’s scowl. Ah, that grumpy face. You loved that face.

So much.

You typed out what you wanted to say to Bucky (well, the answer to his texts anyway), and then sent it off.

“Hey, Buck. You know what sounds so nice? A really big pizza, a hot bath, and not speaking to anybody but you for a week. Is it selfish to ask you to cancel any plans you made today?"

"ETA: 11:38 am.”

***

It had taken two overflowing steins of Asgardian beer to put him down the night prior, but Bucky slept like a baby: he woke up every two hours, stress-cried, and then rocked himself back to sleep. It didn’t help that he knew your plane would be leaving very early in the morning from Siberia, long before he usually woke up--the nightmares were relentless. The quinjet in his dreams kept getting shot down, or having fuel issues, or suddenly losing both wings over Moscow, and he would wake up just as you hit the ground. To say that Bucky got any rest, knowing you were due back… that would’ve been a lie.

Bucky stalked around the compound, fists clenched, and not because he was angry, or tired. He had made a choice in between bouts of sleep, and he would put that into action the second your feet were on solid ground. But there were so many people around and he was running late to meet you, and Sam had disappeared for a few hours so he had nobody to confirm whether or not his clothing was acceptable for meeting his girl. Not like he would’ve ASKED Sam’s opinion. But he wasn’t there to give it freely like usual, and Bucky could’ve used some unprompted advice.

He settled on the blue leather jacket. The one you accidentally slashed through the zipper of trying to repair the left armscye, after he busted down the seam rolling his bike. It wasn’t your fault you couldn’t see with angry tears in your eyes.

It was the one and only time he had glimpsed what it would be like to fight with you, and it was enough to make him promise to buy a helmet (even though he was basically infallible), and not to take the bike out in the rain again.

You still loved the jacket—“It shows off your arm so well, Buck—give my compliments to Shuri for the charcoal and gold next time you hear from her. So freaking good!”—so he figured wearing it to meet your jet would boost his resolve. Everything else he chose was black (shirt, jeans, boots… but the new ones that Steve gave him for his birthday).

He closed his fingers around something in his pocket. Phew, still there. Bucky had been wracking his brain for something of his that he could give you that would have a little more weight than a hoodie with Tony Stark’s name on it (but he was going to let you keep that forever). He was pretty sure you’d like what he chose. You’d never reacted with anything less than delight at something he’d given you. This was a part of him though, so. Bucky was nervous.

And potentially late. Fuck!

He couldn’t say he wasn’t secretly pleased that your ETA had been cut down by almost an hour, thanks to Sam’s intervention with Red Wing’s tracking system (and blessedly, Coulson had actually listened and followed); he had jumped up and punched the air when your text message arrived with the updated ETA, and then panicked when he realized he only had forty-five minutes to shower, shave, get his head straight, and get down to the hangar.

“Is it selfish to ask you to cancel any plans you made today?” He scoffed. Plans, what plans? You were coming home. THAT was his day, week, life--whatever you wanted. You could teach him how to text, so he could reply when you sent him such lovely things.

Bucky wove through the sea of agents in the halls of the main building, and burst through the doors to the lawn. The hangar was only about a hundred yards from the door, and Bucky’s phone was beeping steadily in his pocket, which meant you were mere minutes away—if his heart thumped any harder it was gonna burst out of his chest.

The sound of your beacon starting it’s descent pinged in his pocket. He looked up as he ran. Sure enough, the shining underbelly of the quinjet emerged from the low-hanging marine layer of fog.

He ran full-tilt down the field.

Inside the hangar… a little party had gathered to greet the jet. It was mostly made up of Avengers—you were a favorite among them, and they had discussed you in Bucky’s presence several times without him even contributing to the discussion—and several agents who he knew had worked alongside you on previous missions. The fact that only you and Coulson went on this one had apparently caused some anxiety among them.

“Cutting it a bit close,” Nat whispered to Bucky as he caught his breath. He glanced at her and frowned. Steve patted his shoulder. Sam waggled his eyebrows… Bucky flipped him off.

The quinjet settled with a flush of steam against the concrete, and then the ramp lowered. Slowly.

You stood there in the opening of the jet, one arm grasping a handle above your head to keep steady, while you propped yourself up on crutches. You smiled, and Bucky lost the ability to breathe. How could one person be so beautiful? The clothes style wasn’t you, but you were glowing with the way the sunlight refracted through the windshield of the jet, and you had braided your hair over your shoulder. Showing off that gorgeous neck.

Your eyes scanned the crowd, but it didn’t take long for you to settle on him. Bucky wondered if he was at risk of spontaneous combustion. The way you tugged your bottom lip into your mouth certainly put him in danger.

“Shit. Coulson didn’t mention injuries,” Nat murmured to Steve, whose grip on Bucky’s shoulder tightened with concern.

“She’s okay,” Bucky breathed, more for his own comfort than Natasha’s. He stared at you. You released the handle and held your open palm up. Several of the people crowded around Bucky waved back, greeting you with calls of “welcome back, y/n!”

“Gang’s all here!” You laughed, catching your balance on your crutches. You looked down like you were going to start down the ramp, and just for a split second--your eyes flicked up to Bucky.

Bucky’s feet beat his head to the impulse, before he could make any kind of judgment call. He strode for the ramp, reaching it in ten paces. His boots thumped against the steel grating, and then you were there in front of him, and looking up at him with sparkling eyes and your lips pursed to say ��Hi, Buck—” and all sense of helping you down the ramp fled from his mind.

He swallowed the sound of his own name in your mouth. He liberated the crutches from your arms, they disappeared somewhere. You gasped and all other sounds fell away. He wrapped his arms around your waist, biting back a groan with your fingers curled into his hair and tugged. It was exactly what Bucky remembered kissing was like, and yet nothing like it; you tempered his urgency with long drags of his bottom lip, teasing the seam between your mouths with the flirtation of tongue, but not letting him devour you the way his whole body wanted to do.

Had he ever actually kissed anyone else before? God. Not like that. Not with someone who held his face so tenderly. Kisses like that weren’t meant for the likes of him, back when he had a reputation for kissing a lot of women. And none of them were You.

Were there other people nearby? Was there anybody else on Earth? Bucky did not care.

You were there, in his arms again—not another single solitary second was going to go to waste.

“Hello to you too,” you whispered at the corner of his mouth. Bucky felt your forehead press against his, but his eyes were closed tightly. Then, the feather-light touch of your lips again on that wrinkle of concern between his brows, then on his cheek, his neck. He hunched forward and hugged you so tight, and Bucky couldn’t remember a single day in his life that he felt that much peace. He made a nest in your shoulder for his face and breathed in deeply, thanks to the circles your hand rubbed between his shoulders to ground him. You always smelled like lilacs. Home.

“You okay?” Your voice matched the softness of your fingers on his nape. Bucky shrugged. He wasn’t. He was. He didn’t know.

“We will be,” you whispered. You pulled back enough to look at him and Bucky forced himself to make eye contact, even though he just wanted to burrow himself in your wool coat and not let go. A smile pulled at your lips. You did that thing he died for and rubbed his ear lobe, pressing another kiss against his lips.

Bucky had no voice to speak of. It had abandoned him. But with you, he didn’t need to say anything. He had enough of his wits about him to remember that you had a broken ankle, so he braced you against his side. With the other hand, he reached into his pocket. The slink of sliding metal against metal sounded, and then he held up his offering.

The way your face shifted made his chest ache. Your eyes welled with tears. You rubbed your thumb over the imprint of his name with just as much tenderness as you said it out loud.

“James Buchanan Barnes. Hmm. That’s a good name,” you said softly. “You want me to keep these for you?”

He nodded.

“I’m so honored.” You sniffled, looping the metal beaded chain over your head. Bucky helped liberate your braid from beneath it. His pride swelled to see his dog tags nestled in the sway between your breasts, a place he himself had never ventured. He let out the breath he had been holding.

“Good,” he finally managed. His voice was raspy with emotion.

You wiped the corners of your eyes, but a few tears streaked down your face. Bucky palmed your chin as if to say is this ok? Too much? But you patted his chest. He thumbed away the wetness from your jaw where it pooled against his hand.

“Say, once I’m released by Medical, can you kiss me again?” The way your cheeks flushed as you asked made Bucky scoff. Like he might be embarrassed by you. You. That was the most preposterous idea he had ever heard.

He leaned closer so your noses brushed against each other. “Kiss you anytime, doll.” He proved his point, and momentarily got lost in the curve of your Cupid’s bow.

“My ankle is killing me,” you whispered.

“Come on.” Bucky turned with his arm secured around your waist. He froze.

The little crowd of people who had gathered were all smiling like absolute morons, several of them were speaking softly to each other. Sam grinned biggest of all, nodding like he had been in on this plan all along--despite the fact that Bucky hadn’t so much as hinted that he might actually lunge full-force at you the moment he saw you. His body had improvised a bit.

Bucky cleared his throat. He glanced down at you, and you were smiling too… even if a little mortified by the collective glee.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

“No you’re not,” you laughed.

“No, I am not.” He winked, though his face did not betray the lion-hearted victory dance going on inside him. Bucky dipped down and hooked his other arm beneath your legs, lifting you easily. You wrinkled your nose at him and pressed your palm to his cheek. He walked you down the ramp and into the embrace of your friends. Both of yours.

***

The debrief with Fury went reasonably well; despite Bucky’s frustrated sigh when you explained how your accident had occurred, he didn’t interject. Coulson detailed how you kept your cool, even as two members of staff had to help you stand, despite the fact that you had also hit your head in addition to busting your ankle. You brushed your hair apart on the right side to show Fury the goose egg and a couple stitches. You could feel Bucky’s eyes on you--he would be hurt to know that your injuries were deeper than you had let on, but the doctors in the ER had provided ample proof that your wound was superficial. Marble edges were sharp. Your head was pretty dense. You were fine. You hadn’t even remembered it until Coulson brought it up.

It didn’t lessen Bucky’s worry, and you felt it in the way he hastened you down to Medical, right past Diane, and into the first available room. He sat next to you on the bed, tilting your chin this way and that to see for himself that your corneas dilated at the same rate… when the doctor came in--Dr. Dean Shaw, instead of Bruce… probably part of Sam’s arrangement--he gave you a bright smile, and generally ignored Bucky unless absolutely necessary.

“Agent. I understand you sustained a head injury during your mission, in addition to your ankle fracture,” he said, flanking you on the unoccupied side of the hospital bed from Bucky. “How are you feeling?”

“Other than a splitting headache and throbbing ankle…” You curled your fingers into Bucky’s clenched fist at your hip, willing him to relax his fingers enough to let you in. He did, but his grip was intense.

The doctor held up a small flashlight and checked your eyes, made you watch his finger as he traced patterns in the air. He examined the stitches beneath your hair. You winced. Shaw made notes in his handheld device (definitely a piece of Stark tech), while his glasses perched towards the end of his nose. He pulled a small case out of the pocket of his coat.

“I’m just going to give you a shot, here. Should help boost your recovery rate, get you back out there in no time. Probably be walking on that leg in a few days. Sound good?”

“What kind of magic shot is that?” you asked, baffled by the notion that whatever magic potion he gave you could cut your healing time in half.

Doctor Shaw glanced at Bucky and cleared his throat. “It’s something we’ve been developing with Director Fury’s oversight. The cells of the source are known to multiply quickly, and we’ve seen very few adverse side-effects.”

“Cells from where? A lizard?”

“Super-soldier.” Bucky’s interjection made your head snap to look at him. His eyes searched yours, but your face heated up quickly.

“No.” Your voice was strained. The doctor paused his preparations.

“It’s perfectly safe,” he said.

“I don’t care about safe--you’re using Bucky’s blood to make some kinda healing serum? How HYDRA of you!” You tried to pull your hand from Bucky’s but he held fast. “You know they were doing this?”

He looked away. “You’ve read all fifty-eight pages of my pardon, doll. ‘Mister Barnes will submit to tests to determine the biological effects of his confinement with the organization known as HYDRA.’ You sit with me every friday during my transfusions in my room--”

“Tests, Bucky--not using your blood for every sorry idiot who walks in here with a minor concussion!”

“Y/n, his blood has the potential to save lives--”

“You can’t tell me SHIELD’s code of ethics allows for human experimentation, Doctor.” You held up the hand you had clasped in Bucky’s metal one. “This man is not your Asset.” Your throat felt like it was going to close up as angry tears came.

Shaw looked away. “I’m going to give you a few minutes,” he said softly. His soft steps carried him out of the room.

“Please close the door,” you breathed to Bucky. He did as you asked immediately, but once the door was shut, he pressed his back to it and sighed. “You’re not their Asset,” you repeated. “Does Bruce have a part in this too?”

“...apparently Banner is against it. Won’t touch the project. I was pretty convinced up until today that his disinterest had to do with my behavior when you were shot, but… I guess not.”

“Small mercies,” you snort.

“Doll--”

“Somehow, I forgot that SHIELD is just the other side of the coin from groups like HYDRA. Really makes me question what the hell any of us are doing, here.”

You pulled your good leg to your chest. Your head pounded. The exhaustion of your trip was setting in, and yet--it broke your heart to think of how flippantly Shaw had said it. His blood has the potential to save lives. Like that justified anything. Bucky didn’t speak, didn’t come closer… maybe you were overreacting, but it just felt wrong. Who was SHIELD to use Bucky that way, even in the guise of doing good?

You couldn’t stop a sob that broke through. Then… he was at your side. Your head was pulled against his chest as you let yourself cry.

“It’s just blood, Y/n,” he whispered against your hair. “What’s so different than donating blood to a clinic? You do it three times a year.”

“You’re not a blood-making machine for SHIELD’s use, Bucky.”

“If that’s the cost of my freedom…” he trailed off. You turned your face into his coat--your favorite one, god, the way the leather and the faint scent of motor oil mingled with his pine-scented soap. He cradled your head under his chin.

“Where’s the line?”

You wanted to look him in the eyes and make him understand. You pushed off his chest so he’d loosen his grip, but you clutched at his shoulders. His eyes were pained, but he waited for you to say whatever it was you were holding onto. You brushed his hair back. He shivered.

“Listen, I’ve-I’ve known you long enough to see all the ways they make you pay for being the Winter Soldier. But I don’t see you that way--I never knew you then, and even if I did, I know you now, and-and-and you have so much goodness in you! I understand consequences and making amends. That’s not what this is, okay? You’re not gonna heal me with your incredible regenerating cells, Bucky. You’re gonna kiss me, and hand me a bottle of ibuprofen. I don’t want anybody to use you. I love you too much. And I know that’s a lot for you to hear, but baby, I am so tired of not telling you that you deserve more. And I’m sure I look insane right now, and this is probably coming from a combination of exhaustion and pent-up annoyance, but I know I’m right--”

Bucky kissed you quiet. It was chaste, and short, but he levelled his gaze with yours and stayed close. “Doll, you gotta be the sweetest thing I’ve ever known.”

You felt yourself blush, and you swiped at your cheeks furiously. “Don’t think anyone’s ever found my hysteria sweet.”

“I do.” He smiled softly. “I haven’t known a lot of sweetness in my life, so it’s easy to recognize.”

You waved a pointed finger in his face. “No matter how cute you are, I’m not taking that fucking shot.”

Bucky chuckled. “Okay, okay.” You sagged in relief and Bucky used the opportunity to memorize the path of your hairline from forehead to cheekbone with his lips. “Can I ask you one thing?”

“Within reason.”

“Did you say that you… love me?”

You pressed your forehead into his shoulder and groaned. “I didn’t want to tell you like that--I was gonna work up to it, but it just came out!”

“That wasn’t a complaint. I just wanted to make sure, because a guy shouldn’t admit things to a girl if he isn’t sure she feels them too.”

“You’re gonna… admit something to me?” You unzipped his coat and wormed your way inside, against his chest, so you could fully wrap your arms around him tight. You wanted to feel the vibrations of his voice. Cool metal fingers cupped your neck, and his other arm bracketed you against him.

“Mmhm.”

“I’m ready.”

The rumble of laughter between his ribs was the best sound you’d ever heard. Until the next moment, when he said:

“Been going crazy without you,” he began. “I don’t really know how this happened, doll, I gotta be honest. One day I couldn’t be lonelier, and the next… you’re playing my song. Making me reevaluate my whole life. Fightin’ people about me.” Bucky scoffed. “If I got one good thing outta this third chance at life, it’s you. Love doesn’t even begin to touch the feeling, but that’s the only language I got, so. I love you, doll.”

Music would never be as beautiful as the melody of that admission. Nothing ever would. And the feeling that followed was relief, and joy, and bliss which made the hairs on your body stand on end.

“You love me,” you gasped.

“So much.”

Well. As he laid his cheek on your temple, you knew:

It might be dramatic, but you would die for him, you’d end people for this man.

You made a mental note to pull Steve into the issue about blood experiments. Once Cap knew about the research, he’d help make Fury understand--especially if he could talk Bruce into sharing his misgivings. Nick Fury was trying to help people. But it wasn’t going to come at the cost of Bucky’s dignity.

While Steve handled the diplomacy, Sam would validate your anger. And then probably rib you endlessly over those margaritas he was demanding. Oh Sam. He should get a medal for keeping the warm man in your embrace safe enough that this was who you came home to. Bucky Barnes. Who loved you.

You couldn’t stop the wry laugh that bubbled up. “Oh my god.”

“Yeah?”

“How the hell did we do three weeks apart?” You kissed the underside of his jaw and pulled back. “Please, get me out of here.”

Bucky cupped your cheeks. The duality of warmth and coolness was so grounding. “Can I say--I know you’re pissed with Fury, SHIELD, and the lot, but… the work you do is for good. Don’t let their missteps cloud that. Okay?”

Oh. Your work… the three weeks practically isolated in Siberia, tracking down the head of the trafficking ring--taking his life painfully, in a dark room, while wearing a dress with a slit to high heaven… your ‘work’ took you into dark places, and made you risk losing your life, let alone your mind. Someday it would prove to be too much. But maybe the only thing you needed right then was James Barnes telling you that you were good.

“Where’d you go, in there?” he said, kissing your pained brow. “Can I follow?”

You tilted your head up and kissed the man who loved you, because that was something you could do now. “Yeah. You can follow.”

Bucky picked you up--your crutches really had fucked off, there was no telling where--and carried you out of Medical. Past Shaw and his pressing questions, past Diane who cooed and waggled her fingers at you (as if you’d told her a million times how much you longed for Bucky to hold you like that, instead of leaving her on read), and back to the main building.

He took you back to the eighth floor without needing to ask; beside door 805, a pair of crutches were propped. You held your thumb up to the bioscreener, the latch popped open, and you were in. Bucky accidentally kicked something on the way in--a wrapped package. After setting you down on the bed, Bucky retrieved the crutches, and the paper-wrapped thing. Oh! Sam’s errand! He tried to hand it to you, but you shook your head.

“Open it,” you said softly. He did so slowly, like something might jump out of the package that was so unmistakably a vinyl record, it was laughable. Bucky froze when the paper was torn away. He turned it over and over and over in his hands.

“How…?”

“Sent Sam on an errand. It’s for you.”

He touched his mouth and you could’ve sworn he was a little verklempt. He unwrapped the plastic and slid the black vinyl from the sleeve; it was flecked in gold confetti inclusions, which glowed in the light from your lamp.

“It’s a re-print, for the 75th anniversary.”

“...I was there, doll…”

You laughed. “I know. Put it on.”

While Bucky reverently prepared your record player, you slid off your wool coat and finally kicked off the lone high heel (which had been shockingly comfortable--Fury would never know if you didn’t give the pair back to wardrobe. Consider it step one of his comeuppance).

The first sound the little machine made was a lush blast from the brass band from Benny Goodman’s The Famous 1938 Carnegie Hall Jazz Concert. Bucky bent over, hands covering his face, and groaned in a combination of delight and disbelief. He knelt, from there, and crawled over until he was at your feet. You held open your arms, and he rested his cheek against your stomach, consumed with letting the music pour into every part of him.

“You’re home,” he muttered like it hadn’t felt real until you were alone again. You tugged on his arm and laid back, silently gesturing for him to join you. He shucked off the jacket you loved so much. That sweet man. Bucky walked around to the foot of your bed and toed off his boots. Then, he leapt onto the space on the mattress between you and the wall, making you laugh and brace for impact.

He crawled up until he was beside you, propping his head up on his left hand. The cybernetic implant whirred by your ear--a sound you had forgotten in the last few weeks. You turned on your side and curled into his chest. His heart was thrumming there, and the intensity matched your own.

“Can I tell you something?” He kissed your hair once, twice.

“Mmm.”

He huffed a laugh, tickling your forehead. “I don’t think I understood what love was, back in 1938. It wasn’t anything like this.”

“It’s just giving each other sentimental things, and hysterical episodes in Medical,” you deadpanned. “Right?”

Bucky tugged on your braid so you’d look at him. He smiled.

“You’re not hysterical,” Bucky said. “You care.”

“I love you. Brings out the protector in me.”

“I seem to remember you trying to protect me before that. I was sitting on this very floor, if you recall.”

“Yeah, well. You’ve always been adorable, so.”

Bucky seemed satisfied with being thought of that way, at least by you, and he hugged you close. It took very little time for you to feel the weight of the last few weeks settle in your chest, threatening that numbing sadness which always accompanied mission decompression, but you were home. Safe. You were loved. Benny Goodman was playing out of your record player.

Your ankle was cracked, and your head a little fuzzy… but Bucky Barnes was in your bed and arms, and nothing else mattered. You stayed there like that, cuddled together and content, until the needle reached the very last groove in the record.

Part 2

Part 4

Tag list: @peterhollandkait @morticiaofthedead @hogwartsahist0ry

#bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes #bucky x female reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #nostalgia for the new by realjane

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lilac-den · 2 years

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MC goes into a forested park, and stays there for many hours. No one who goes into the park has seen anyone by the MC's description, either. Some time later, they stroll out like they hadn't been missing all day. Unbeknownst to everyone, MC built a secret base hidden in plain sight. How fast do Team Greek figure it out if MC won't cop to it? Who's annoyed MC wanted to hide where they couldn't find them? Having another hidy hole might be smart for safety reasons. 🤫

I mean, to be honest: Squad Greek understands the importance of privacy and they don't judge anyone for having a secret hideaway. If MC needs some alone time and doesn't want them to know, they trust MC enough to do so.

Zeus wouldn't pipe in too much, unless MC fails to provide a signal to show they're not in danger - like receiving a text message after a certain number of hours or showing some sort of sign that MC is safe and not mysteriously kidnap. Something that warrants ease into precaution, if that makes sense - revealing the location of the hideout is up to MC's willingness.

Hermes is a little hesitant, especially given how hard it is to build trust with this person already, but they won't dive in too deep if it is too personal for MC. They might try to learn the location (but not precise coordinates) of the hideout, but nothing more because while it is smart to not know the hideout's location, it's not safe to leave MC completely in the dark with their allies when an enemy could have an advantage in knowing.

Though, Hermes wouldn't share the general location and wouldn't leave evidence of there being a hideout, even to Squad Greek.

Dionysus is...very much a mother hen, honestly. They'll be a little hurt that MC doesn't want to share the location, but can understand as to why. They'll still maintain contact with MC however and try not to pry over this.

Just expect welcome hugs when MC returns - MC's fault for being gone for so long!

Ares doesn't pry nor interrogate if MC answers vaguely on where they have been. But oddly enough, Ares might be the closest one to find the hideout if romanced; mainly because their instincts is like an MC-tracker and Ares could just be walking around the hideout while on a walk or a stroll, thinking about something random or related to the MC.

But even if Ares knows, they won't talk about it to anyone, not even the MC; they'll just shrug and move on, maybe text MC a 'mind picking up the --- on the way home?' in case MC is out and about.

???...For them, they'd definitely find the hideout in a heartbeat - but they won't really put that into conversation. I guess the farthest they'll do is commenting something that might be helpful to MC's hideout without knowing the hideout's outline or location, like "Did you know bushes can provide some good camouflage for small stuff?", "Hrm...I heard the smell of [item] helps cover up strong odors." and so on. Just making subtle comments that can help MC hide their hidey hole better.

#silverking #ROasks #MC's hideout #MC's hidey hole

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dramioneasks · 3 years

Text

HP FESTS: For The Love of Fests (Part 1)

Love at Second Sight January 2021:

Second Time's the Charm by floorcoaster - T, one-shot - The first time Hermione sees Draco Malfoy again, she's in for a surprise.

Influence by Misdemeanor1331 - G, one-shot - Draco and Hermione bump into each other at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. Draco thinks it’s a chance encounter. Hermione knows it’s anything but.

The Love Boat by Seakays - T, one-shot - Hermione Granger and her two best friends are embarking on a week long "Divorced Magicals" Cruise. Hermione took advantage of the Cruise's pre cruise chat room, where she met Scorly1203. After six months of texting, she has agreed to meet him on the first day of the cruise. Could she really find a second chance at love on the Lido Deck?

Second Time Lucky by rennaissance_woman - not rated, one-shot - During a trip to Weasley Wizard Wheezes, what do you do when presented with a second chance?

In Vino Veritas by beautyberry - M, one-shot - "Granger?" he asked disbelievingly. "Malfoy?" she asked, "What are you doing here?" Rated M for mentions of sex.

The Art of Second Chances by Blessedindeed - not rated, one-shot - A chance encounter at the museum brings up unresolved feelings

What Lies Beyond the Light by SlytherinHermione - M, one-shot - The thing about prisons is that it tends to change a you. The person you were when you went in, will not be the person that comes out. Sometimes for the better, oftentimes for the worst. For Draco Malfoy, the scales were tipped when a certain lawyer forced themselves onto his case with the start of one letter. A letter that turned into the type of correspondence where you end up baring your soul to a stranger. A stranger that ends up knowing every little part of you, from the darkest corners, to the sunniest fields - while barely knowing you at all. But then again, Hermione Granger was never really a stranger to begin with.

Silly Love Songs February 2021:

This Beauty By My Side by Amarillis39 - M, one-shot - My entry to the Silly Love Songs Fest. ____ "But as he watched her glide through the crowd, he decided he would take every second she would give him. Worthy or not, he was still a selfish git." ___ It's another stuffy gala at the Ministry and Draco is overcome with conflicting feelings as he watches Hermione in her element.

The Light That You Shine by SlytherinHermione - M, one-shot - Draco was adrift. All around him was an endless, unforgiving ocean, dull and grey in colour. The waves kept crashing in on him. Back and forth, back and forth. Sometimes he felt like he’d been cursed to remain like a graying tower, alone on the sea. This all changed on a random cold winter day and a bright light. Because what followed the light was as unexplainable as the feeling of calm that suddenly enveloped him. He felt a twinge of something that he couldn’t explain. On the other side of the sidewalk stood Hermione Granger, more beautiful than he could remember, locking eyes with him for a second, as if she herself was caught with him inside of this time bubble filled with light and large, fluffy snowflakes. And with a blink of an eye, she walked the other way, as if this was just another Monday. As if she hadn’t just turned Draco's world up-side down. The tumultuous oceans that surrounded his untethered soul were full of waves, but now of a different kind.

Discord by Lostinthenightrain - T, one-shot - “I’ve seen your darkest, and it doesn’t scare me. You’ve become something so much more.” She placed a gentle kiss on his jaw. “I love you, dark and all.”

Time to Spare by Willowfairy - M, one-shot - Draco gets drunk enough to finally tell Hermione how he really feels, and once he starts talking he finds it impossible to stop.

Sometimes When We Touch by sodamnrad - T, one-shot - What if Hermione and Draco were dating when he took the Dark Mark? Submission for the Silly Loves Songs Mini-Fest One shot | Draco's POV | Sixth Year

To Be With You by Blessedindeed - not rated, one-shot - Her ability to show forgiveness intrigues him. Draco finds he has a soft spot for Hermione.

Masquerade March 2021:

Punch Line by tygermine - E, one-shot - Hermione seems to hide behind multiple masks.Draco wants to remove them all.

A Deadly Dance by MykEsprit - T, one-shot - An unexpected guest arrives at the ball. Dramione.

Ask it of Me by WritingFicariously - T, one-shot - Hermione has always had the ability to chase away demons, the darkness that twists his mind into believing he is not good, never enough. She sees and knows every part of him. But Draco has always kept one thing from her, one secret that he never dared say aloud. Until he did.

A Masquerade of Body and Soul by Annav94 - M, one-shot - She’s here to escape the reality, to break the rules. She is here to break the rules because all rules have only given her, is false hope. She turns her head and her eyes meet his. He’s there for the catch of the night. And while he finds himself smirking, smiling at the unforeseen turn of event, he wonders if truly Hermione Granger is flirting in a room full of witnesses with none other than himself - the infamous Draco Malfoy.

Imbolc by CosmicCthulhu - G, one-shot - Hermione celebrates the beginning of spring for the first time, years after the war. She's not the only one who wants a fresh start.

Suit Up by calico_kitten - M, 2 chapters - Gawain Robards has cooked up a new idea for the Departmental Hallowe'en Ball: comic book hero disguises!

This Mask I Wear by SlytherinHermione - T, one-shot - This mask I wear feels cool on my skin. I slip it on, and the act is ready to begin.Safety. Protection. Freedom.

Lover of Fiction April 2021:

3 Words, 8 Letters by sodamnrad - T, 2 chapters - “Do you like me?” Draco’s flitty looks, his tart remarks about her feelings for Blaise, the way he’s following her around instead of chasing an eligible witch who isn’t pining over his friend is extremely telling.“Define like.”Her mouth unhinges. No effing way. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”“How do you think I feel?” He glares at her. “I haven’t slept. I feel sick like there’s something in my stomach, fluttering.” He presses a hand against his belly, as if he’s experiencing the sensation at this very moment.“Butterflies?” she deadpans. “No. No, no, no this cannot be happening.”“No one is more surprised or ashamed than I am.” He gestures to himself, lifting his chin tersely.“Draco, you know that I adore all of Earth’s creatures and the metaphors that they inspire,” she says as her hand forms a crushing fist, “but the butterflies have got to be murdered.”---Draco & Hermione: Their Story (2000s TV Drama Style)Dual POV | 2 Shot | Idiots in Love

The Ambition by In_Dreams - M, one-shot - After ten years at sea, Captain Hermione Granger has a ship and a crew of her own. But one of her new crew mates is a blacksmith from her past. Dramione Pirates AU.

Jitters by TheMourningMadam - M, one-shot - This was written for the Lovers of Fiction mini fest for April. Thank you to QuinTalon for being a gracious host in this fest.My prompt was Jamie and Claire Fraser from Outlander. If you have never seen Outlander, why not? You at least need to watch their first time to see some hot and bewildered Jamie. This is a tiny snapshot into what would be a much larger story, so please take it at face value.Also, I finished this story right at the wire, so didn't have time for a beta. All mistakes are obviously my own and I apologize. Bold sentences are word for word from the tv show.

I Meant Something Like That by CharliPetidei - M, WIP - “You know what’s funny?” said Hermione, crossing her ankles and leaning forwards on the slightly peeling leather sofa. “When I first saw your advert online… I thought you were Hufflepuffs.” The three men opposite her exchanged glances, and then the tall, platinum blond one (it had to be dyed, right?) with the funny name leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. Draco, that was it. “You thought we were what?” A New Girl Dramione AU.

The One Where Everyone Finds Out - Dramione Edition by Annav94 - T, WIP - Don’t we all know what happened when Phoebe finds out about Monica and Chandler in season 5 of Friends? Well, what would then happen if it was Draco and Hermione to be discovered by Pansy? Would then Theo try to calm her down, in the hope that she would stop screaming so his boyfriend (Harry bloody Potter, of all people) would be prevented from finding out about them is such crude way? And would Blaise go along with the scheme the two Slytherins would come up with to push the new couple to expose itself or will he be done with all the ‘pretending’ of not knowing, when he knew all along?Stay with me on this journey called: ‘The One Where Everyone Finds Out - Dramione Edition’.

The Dragon's Moving Castle by SlytherinHermione - T, WIP - Hermione Granger had accepted that her life wasn't going to be a great big adventure.She wasn't particularly beautiful, or interesting, and she hadn't been born with magic like her sisters. Really, she was just as plain as could be.One day though, a castle was seen rolling around the hills near her town.Not long after, she met a strange, handsome, and mysterious man.And she was cursed by the Wicked Witch of the Wasteland.Perhaps life was an adventure after all.

Lanky Brunettes with Wicked Jaws by Lostinthenightrain - M, one-shot - “You’ve got types?”“Only you darling.” He put his hand under her chin and brought her around to face him. He pulled her close with his arm held tight against her. His head to the side of her own, he grinned. “Lanky brunettes with wicked jaws.” A gentle kiss placed against her jaw. She smiled, a blush prettying her cheeks as she pulled back.

Reader, I Married Him by Lostinthenightrain - T, one-shot - “Why must you?” he questioned as he pulled himself forward, using the rough pads of his fingers he gently touched under her chin, dragging her gaze to his own. “You know why!” She wrenched her chin from his grasp. “You are to be married, Malfoy.”

This fest is ongoing.

#fests/exchanges/challenges #for the love of fests

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doc-pickles · 3 years

Text

all's well that ends well to end up with you

After a weekend conference Jo finds herself in an unfamiliar and unexpected situation with an all too familiar face from her past.

“How was the conference?”

As Link approaches Jo she can’t help but jump in surprise, he’d snuck up on her as she stood outside of one of her patients' rooms editing their chart. She had been gone for the weekend at a medical conference in New York and hadn’t seen Link since coming home.

“It was good,” Jo doesn’t look away from the computer in front of her, typing as she speaks to Link. “Robbins is pretty amazing, I’m kinda bummed I never got to work under her as an OB. But I learned a lot and I had fun.”

Her phone dings next to her and before she can grab it Link is reading the screen with interest, “Who’s Michael and why does he want to know how your morning is going?”

Jo snatches her phone up, putting it into her pocket as she closes out of the computer. She turns and begins to walk away from Link, “I met him at the conference.”

“Does he live nearby?”

“No.”

“Did you sleep with him?”

“Atticus Lincoln!”

Whipping her head around Jo isn’t shocked to see the smug grin on Link’s face. He shrugs, walking past her towards the elevators as he continues his thoughts, “I’m just saying, you’re a single mom of a three-year-old who had a whole entire weekend to herself. I assume you went to a bar, got wasted, and slept with the first eligible doctor you laid eyes on.” “Wow you really do not know me at all,” Jo follows Link into the elevator, pressing the level one button. “He’s a doctor that I happened to connect with in New York. We’ve been texting, not that it’s any of your business.”

“I’m your best friend and you’re not gonna tell me about the first man you’ve slept with since…”

“Don’t try to calculate, it’ll hurt your brain.”

While she’s always more than happy that she has her college friend back in her life Jo often finds herself annoyed at his antics, the same way she assumes siblings get tired of each other. She assumes that Link does these things to get a rise out of her but she always has the suspicion that his love for life and childlike excitement has something to do with it as well.

“Well I’m glad you had a good weekend,” the doors of the elevator slide open, and Jo and Link step out. “Still on for dinner tomorrow?”

Jo nods as she begins to walk down the hallway away from Link, “Yes and I promise I won’t burn it this week.” Link’s laugh echoes down the hallway as Jo turns the corner towards the hospital daycare. She’d flown in early in the morning and gone straight to work meaning she hadn’t seen Luna for three days. She was more than ready to scoop her daughter up and go home to watch movies on the couch.

“Mama!”

The excited voice of her daughter snaps Jo out of her thoughts, a grin overtaking her face as she runs towards her. She opens her arms just quick enough to catch Luna as she barrels forward into her chest. Even though she was just gone for the weekend Jo couldn’t help but savor the feeling of her daughter's arms wrapped around her.

“Oh my little star, I missed you so much,” Jo pulls back and presses a kiss to Luna’s forehead. “Did you have fun with Auntie Mer?”

“Yes she did, she was a perfect angel,” Jo turns her attention to Meredith who’s standing in front of her with Ellis hoisted on her hip. “I came to check on this one, she’s got a bit of a cough so sorry if Luna catches it.”

Jo shakes her head, squeezing her daughter tighter, “It’s okay, Luna is a warrior. Thank you so much again for watching her.”

“Jo you’ve watched my kids more times than I can count, don’t worry about it,” Meredith brushes off Jo’s thanks with a grin. “So did you have fun? Adult fun?”

“What is with you and Link? I go to an MFM conference and you guys think my whole weekend was a sexscapade,” Jo rolls her eyes, grabbing Luna’s backpack and hoisting the three-year-old onto her hip. “Not that it matters but I did have fun.”

Meredith shouts her goodbyes as Jo and Luna walk out of the daycare. While she’d be hesitant to admit it out loud Jo did enjoy having a weekend to herself. She’d caught up with Arizona and Callie and even had a chance to sleep in for once. The handsome man that she’d connected with was a nice bonus as well.

As if on queue Jo’s phone dings as she climbs into the driver’s seat of her Audi, a smile lighting up her face as she reads the text.

Hope you girls are having a good night, can’t stop thinking about you.

A blush spreads across her cheeks and Jo can’t help the swarm of butterflies that well up in her stomach. While one weekend wasn’t enough to judge a whole future she was excited to see where things took her.

True to Meredith’s word both Luna and Jo caught the cough and cold that Ellis had. While Luna had recovered quickly Jo couldn’t seem to shake the brain fog and fatigue plaguing her. She trudged through her work weeks, adopting the same bedtime as Luna and pushing off everyone’s questioning and concerned gazes until she couldn’t anymore. After three days straight of waking up exhausted, fatigued, and throwing up Jo surrendered and called Meredith to come and get Luna. If she could barely manage to get herself out of bed how was she supposed to take care of a rambunctious toddler as well? While she waited for Meredith to arrive Jo laid in bed, phone pressed to her ear.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself. What’s up?”

“I don’t think Luna and I will be able to make it this weekend.”

“Are you guys okay? You sound terrible.”

“Gee how romantic of you, you really know how to woo a girl.”

“Jo…”

“I’m fine just… pregnant.”

There’s a long pause, an unavoidable silence encompassing both ends of the phone. Jo knows this is the last thing he was expecting, it was the last thing she was expecting, but it’s where they found themselves.

“What’d you say?” “I’m pregnant. I took a test yesterday. Well, I took seven but still.”

Jo can hear him suck in a breath on the other side and she can’t help but wish she was telling him in person, standing across from him as he launches forward and wraps his arms around her in that pleasant rush of shock and excitement.

“From New York? It’s…” “Definitely yours. There’s not really any other contenders.”

“Holy sh-”

“I know, not exactly the kind of news you were expecting,” Jo pauses, toying with a loose thread on her comforter. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, we’ll work it out. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I want to stay on and talk but I have surgery. I’ll talk to you later?”

“Of course. Talk to you soon.”

Jo hangs the phone up, falling back onto her pillows with a sigh. She had never pictured herself in this situation but here she was; a single mom to a toddler pregnant by a guy she had seen over one weekend who lived states away. The thought alone hurt her, but she knew that she could get through it.

“Was that mystery man from the conference?”

Jo nearly jumps at the sight of Meredith standing in the doorway of her bedroom. She looks down to Luna who’s sleeping soundly beside her before answering, “Yeah that was him.”

“You didn’t seem very happy to talk to him,” Meredith seats herself at the end of Jo’s bed, raising her eyebrows with a questioning look. “Trouble in paradise?”

“More like trouble in everyday life,” Jo rolls her eyes, looking up at Meredith. “Thanks for taking Luna, I appreciate it.”

“Of course,” Meredith pauses, eyeing Jo warily for a moment. “Are you sure you’re not contagious?”

“I told you I have food poisoning,” Jo groans as she slips further under the covers. She wasn’t in the mood for Meredith‘s questioning today. “I’ll call if I’m not okay.”

The answer placates Meredith for now and Jo wakes Luna and sends her with her friend. She stays in bed for a few more minutes before the urge to throw up overwhelms her. After she spends half an hour hunched over the toilet she finally feels good enough to crawl back into bed, falling asleep before thoughts about her unexpected pregnancy overwhelm her brain.

Despite falling asleep quickly Jo finds that she’s restless. When her stomach finally feels settled she drags herself to the kitchen, eating plain toast before jumping in the shower. By midday, Jo feels better, save for her lingering exhaustion. Meredith texts to inform her that Ellis and Luna have suckered her into a sleepover and that she’ll bring Luna home the next afternoon. With not much else to do Jo settles on the couch with a movie.

She doesn’t realize she’s fallen asleep until there’s a banging on her front door. The bright light shining through the windows alerts Jo to the fact that she slept through the night and Meredith is bringing Luna home. She jogs to the door, her apology to Meredith failing on her lips as she realizes it’s not her friend in front of her.

“Hey.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Well you called and sounded terrible and we were supposed to meet up this weekend anyway so…”

“So you hopped on the first plane to Seattle?”

“I hope that’s okay.”

”Of course! You know I missed you, I'm just shocked.”

The rest of Jo's statement is cut short as Luna barrels down the hallway and crashes into her legs. It only takes a few seconds for Jo to realize just how screwed she is before Meredith‘s voice echoes down the hallway.

“Alex?”

The blonde doesn’t wait for a response, instead wrapping her arms around the man standing in Jo's doorway. As she pulls away from Alex Meredith looks between him and Jo before letting out a gasp.

“Oh my go-“

Jo doesn’t hear the rest of Meredith's sentence as she shakes Luna off of her leg and bolts down the hall. She barely makes it to the bathroom, the little bit of popcorn and toast she managed to eat yesterday reappearing in the toilet bowl before her. She can hear Luna calling down the hall for her, Meredith distracting her quickly. As her body heaves forward again, Jo feels a warm hand on her back and another pulling her hair back.

“I’ve only been in town for an hour and I’m having a blast,” Alex chuckles as Jo swats at him blindly. “Sorry about the throwing up.”

“I blame you for this.”

“And I blame Arizona.”

When she’s done throwing up, Jo sits back and takes a long look at Alex. Although she had seen him only a few weeks earlier she can’t help but take him in all over again. The crooked smile she’s become so accustomed to still graces his face and his presence calms her nerves more than she thought it would.

“I can’t believe you flew all the way out here.”

“You were going to fly out to Kansas with Luna, I figured the least I could do right now was help you out for the weekend,” Alex brushes the hair back from Jo’s forehead and she can’t help but lean into him. “How are you doing? I mean throwing up aside obviously?”

“Tired. And I can’t remember anything,” Jo doesn’t have a better answer for Alex, her train of thought being interrupted by Luna babbling outside the door anyways. “I should get her.”

“I can get her if you want,” Alex stands quickly, extending his hand to Jo. “I mean if it's okay with you that is. I’m just trying to help out, I can take her for a bit and you can nap.”

Jo nods in thanks, bypassing Meredith in the hallway and immediately curling up in bed. She can hear Alex and Meredith whispering but can’t quite make out their words. Luna is babbling and she can tell that Alex is responding to whatever the toddler is saying to him. As Jo drifts off to sleep once again she can’t help but feel like the future might not be as dim as she had first thought.

When she wakes up a few hours later Jo is greeted by the sight of Alex coming into her room. She pats the spot next to her on the bed and curls into Alex’s side as he settles in, his arms wrapping around her shoulder. The warmth that spreads through her as he presses a kiss to her forehead is warm and comforting, something she’d craved for far too long.

“Thank you for helping with Luna, I really appreciate it.”

“It’s no problem,” there’s a momentary pause before Alex speaks again and despite not being able to see his face Jo knows he’s grinning. “We’re having a baby. Can you believe that?”

“I would say no but the constant nausea and throwing up make it hard to forget,” Jo threads her fingers through Alex’s as she rests his hand on her still flat abdomen. “We’re having a baby.”

The moment is bittersweet, the excitement of the tiny new life overshadowing the reminder that they could have already had this had Alex not left. Jo chooses to overlook that as she lets herself finally feel the excitement that’s been bubbling under the surface since she had seen the positive test two days before, “The first time I sleep with you in three years and you knock me up. I think you just missed me.”

“I did. I have every day since we said goodbye outside the airport.”

Alex’s candor makes Jo’s breath hitch. As she turns to meet his eyes she knows he’s telling the truth, but she still finds herself craving the reminder that this is real and not a dream.

“I want us to be a family, that’s what I’ve always wanted with you, Jo. I know we didn’t count on Eli and Alexis or Luna. And we definitely didn’t count on this little one,” a smile spreads across Alex’s face as he squeezes their intertwined hands still resting on her stomach. Jo can’t help the tears that well in her eyes at the small gesture. “But I can’t picture a future without all of them. Or you, I definitely don’t want a future without you, Jo. I told you in New York that leaving was my biggest mistake and I meant that. I don’t want to be a dad without you by my side, I don’t want anything if you’re not by my side. I can do it, I can live my life, but I don’t want to unless you’re there too. I love you, Jo.”

Jo can’t stop the tears that are tracking down her face. She knows she’s worrying Alex with her emotional display but her raging hormones make the task of stopping the tears near impossible. Instead, she reaches up and kisses him squarely, letting her lips linger a bit longer than she normally would. When she pulls away Alex’s eyes are still closed and he’s wearing a blissed-out expression.

“I love you too,” Jo savors the words as they fall off of her lips, not having said them in this context since the last voicemail she had left for Alex before she had read his letter. “I love you and our family so much.”

There’s nothing else for them to say, the couple enjoying the silence that surrounds them as Jo leans up to kiss Alex again and they get lost in each other. It’s an easy feat, their emotions and feelings towards each other guiding their actions as they once again fall into bed with each other. Jo knows that they have more to discuss but for now she’s content to get lost in Alex all over again.

#jolex #alex karev #jo wilson #jo karev #greys anatomy #jo x alex #jolex fanfic #greys anatomy fanfic #nina writes

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hedgiwithapen · 3 years

Note

How about the Leverage Crew arriving in Central City in time for the that time Barry got accused of murdering DeVoe. Basically, Leverage Crew (Classic or Redeption is your choice) meddling in that plan. Because screw DeVoe. Can be in the same universe as The Central City job, or a brand new AU; your choice.

this one Long The courthouse was packed when a sleek black van pulled up to a loading zone. Nathan Ford turned from the passenger seat. “You all know the play?” “Mm, yup,” Parker said, clipping a badge to her blazer pocket. “The Boston skip.” “It’s not the Boston Skip,” Hardison snapped, fussing with his tie.. “You’re just grumpy because you have to play the lawyer again.” Eliot smirked. “Hey, you said only if it comes to a cross examine, I did my job, if you all do your jobs right and it doesn’t come to that,” Hardison’s voice pitched upwards. “If?” Sophie put on the emergency break. “If? Hardison, I’m hurt.” “Soph,” Nate sighed. “Let it go.” “For now. We’re having words later,” Sophie insisted. “Can we just get this over with?” Eliot asked, maneuvering to take the driver’s seat. “ you know I don’t like us splitting up like this.” “It’ll only be for a bit,” Parker said, squeezing his hand. “ We’ll be fine.” They left the van in twos, first Parker and hardison, briefcase and extraneous computer in hand, and a minute or two later Sophie and Nate followed-- and Nate with a plain folder tucked under his arm. Eliot drove in the direction of the police station, ready for the next phase of the plan. They hadn’t exactly called ahead, but that wasn’t going to be much of a problem. Cisco Ramon was the first to spot them. He goggled a bit. “What are you doing here?” he asked as Hardison approached the bench where Team Flash had congregated. Hardison smiled, knowing the prosecutor was watching. “I came to offer my services,” he said, sending a quick text with a thought. “ Where is Ms Horton?” “Here,” the short woman said, her eyes cutting between the two as Cisco checked his phone. “ Who are you? Cisco, who is--” Cisco looked up from the message--you didn’t see us coming?-- and relaxed slightly for the first time in weeks. “I’m part of Mr. Allen’s legal team,” Hardison smiled wide. “He’s ok, Cecile,” Cisco vouched. “ He and his, uh, coworkers have helped us in the past. With Z--wait, that was before you. Um.” “My firm helped get Henry Allen some money, after that unfortunate mess. And we’re here to see justice through again.” He hesitated. “ Or pick up where it leaves off,” he said under his breath. Cecile took in a sharp breath. “When did we hire you?” “Uh--” “Cecile, it’s really ok,” Caitlin joined the cluster. “They know about STAR. And apparently about the recent… developments.” “You think we don’t keep tabs on your crazy city? Now, Ms. Horton, as your co-lawyer, we need to discuss strategy. I’ve got some character witnesses I’d like to introduce, some crucial evidence that needs to be submitted, is there an office we might use?” He steered her away, nodding to Parker, deep in conversation with the prosecutor.

“You let that jerk stick around?” Iris jumped when she heard the voice in her ear. Turning she sighed with recognition. “ Lilli--Sophie?” “In the flesh.” She smiled. “I can’t stay long, but Eliot wanted me to ask.” Iris sighed. “If it’s Eliot asking, I guess you mean Harry. He’s been a lot better since Eliot kicked his ass, that’s for sure. And he has been helpful.” “I’m sure,” Sophie sounded anything but sure. “Listen, we’ve got this pretty well handled, but you and your friends may wish to be ready in case of reprisals. Have you upgraded security lately?” “Cisco’s worked on it,” Iris confirmed. “Good. Hardison would love to take a look, later. We’re probably going to be in the area, we’ve had word something’s fishy at that prison of yours.” When Iris opened her mouth Sophie shook her head. “Iron Heights. Point is, we’ll be around should you need anything.” “Thank you for the offer,” Iris said. She shook her head. “ These people are smart, Sophie. Dangerous.” “Not compared to my team,” Sophie smiled. “Save your worry. Look, see? Hardison’s in place, and Parker’s in the wings. I’ve got to go take care of my part. If you see your husband, let him know, will you?” “I-- sure,” Iris said, and she watched as Sophie stood and walked into a crowd. An entirely different person made her way past a bailiff and into the Juror’s box, leaning over to the man beside her and nodding in the direction of the door Barry Allen had just been escorted through. As Iris stood to take his hand across the gap between his seat and the benches, Sophie gave a little nod to the two of them. “It is strange,” the man said. “But I don’t think we’re meant to discuss the case until we’re in the back.” “Of course not,” Sophie said. “I was just thinking about it, is all. If it were a scene in a mystery novel, I’d call it too obvious.” “You do have a point,” the man agreed. “I’m actually a novelist myself.” “You don’t say,” Sophie smiled. “Classic red herring, am I right? And what a story. Two men in the same family accused of nearly identical murders…” She tapped her com, giving a quick signal. Nate was up. “Ah, a quick word?” Nate stepped away from the wall, flagging down Mrs. DeVoe and her companion. “No,” she snapped, putting on what Nate could see was a reasonably convincing mask of Grieving Widow. Convincing to a mark, maybe. But the Mako was right--you can’t con a conman. “Vultures, all of you.” “Oh, I’m not a reporter.” Nate said easily. He nodded to the tall man at Marlize’s Elbow. “Mr. DeVoe, I’m sure you’ll want to hear what I have to say.” He was pleased to see shock cross the face of Dominic Lanse. The man grabbed him by the arm, yanking him into an empty room. Mrs. DeVoe followed, locking it behind her. “Just so you are aware, there is video footage of you dragging me in here,” Nate said in his most helpful voice. “In case you decide to kill me here, probably not your smartest move.” he glanced around. “Private, though. Good.” He gave his signature infuriating grin. “Make this quick,” Clifford said in Dominic’s voice. “Court begins soon.” “Right, well, that’s going to be your problem.” Nate shrugged. “ Let’s skip the pleasantries. I know everything, about your plan at least. Your computer banks! Normal people couldn’t even find them, so you’ve got that going for you, though the security is lacking once you get past that, so B+. I am not Normal People. I have the best hacker in the multiverse, though, so,” he clicked his tongue in mock dismay, “like I said, my team and I --I’m sure you’re trying to think of who we are right now--know everything.” Marlize glanced at her silent watch, frowning. “Oh, no, no, I’m not a meta.” Nate shook his head. “But the thing is, I don’t have to be to destroy you.” “What--” “Again. I know everything, Thinker. Your basement prison, your hidden files, what you want with that satellite… you really shouldn’t have written everything down… twice even.” He fished a small book out of his pocket, and let them see the plain cover. Clifford’s eyes darkened. “That’s mine.” “Yeah, well, I also have the

multiverse’s greatest thief.” “Our home is under police protection and surveillance. There are officers--” “There right now, I’m aware.” Eliot Spencer, clutching a cup of coffee in one hand, flashed a badge at the pair of officers standing by a door. “Any trouble?” “Nope. She just left for the courthouse. Some work, huh? Just standing here.” “Hmm.“ Eliot agreed. “Though I guess if something did happen, the Flash would swoop in.” “Nine times out of ten,” the first officer agreed. “Or one of his buddies. “ “Maybe 8 times,” the second officer shrugged. “ You new?” “Just transferred from Keystone.” Eliot said. “Not so much nonsense there.” “I hear that. Good to have the backup though.” Eliot nodded. “ You do a walk through?” “Uh, no…. Like I said, no trouble, officer-- “Ted Crichton,” Eliot interrupted. “You haven’t walked through? What if someone’s in there, waiting to assault Mrs. DeVoe when she gets back?” “Well, uh, we don’t have a warrant--” “For crying out loud--” Eliot pulled a paper from his pocket. “See? Now let's go. You stay out here. Who has the back-- does no one have the back door? “ The officers hurried inside. “Don’t forget to check the closets,” Eliot called. -- “ Like I said. Best thief. Best hacker. Now, honestly--and you can run the numbers-- your best bet would be to cut your losses right here, right now. You’re already lying on the stand, so say you were coerced into implicating Mr. Allen--if you need someone to blame I do have a list of patsys that really need the jail time. You do that, put your little plan,” he waggled the book “ back in the box or write it up as the next dystopian best seller for High School English classes to dissect for decades to come, and you can walk away from this.” A laugh. “No one will believe anything you say. That book can’t be traced to me, and even if it could be, it doesn’t prove anything. So someone thinks I’m a supervillain. I’m dead. You have nothing that proves Mr. Allen innocent. You’re out of your mind, Mr. Ford.” “Oh good, you know who I am. Think a little harder.” “As threats go, it’s half baked,” Marlize challenged. “What are you going to do if we refuse? Break Allen out of jail so he can be a fugitive? He’d never go along with it. And the Flash can’t stop us.” “I’d run those numbers again, you’ve left out quite a few variables. But no.” “No?” “If you refuse, if you keep up your little game, lie on the stand, sell that sob story, maybe you're right and the Flash can’t stop you. But he doesn’t need to. I’ll destroy you.” “You.” It was not a question. “For someone claiming to be the smartest man in the world, I’m a bit worried about your memory. I said it already--I’m not here alone. But be my guest. Tell your lies. Right about now the Jury is thinking about what an embarrassment to the city Henry Allen’s trial was and how closely this resembles it… the similarities, the way the timelines don’t quite match up… “ “Really? You’re trying to convince the jury to ignore evidence and go with their hearts? A pathos appeal? That’s not going to work. There’s less than a 3% chance of that even ending in a mistrial, much less acquittal.” “I’m sure that’s what your numbers said,” Nate smiled yet again, this time sharklike. “Cute. I bet you think it’s difficult to get assigned jury duty. “ “It-- we checked all the names. We know--” “You know who they are, yes, yes. But you don’t know who we are. Another sloppy mistake. Now, the jury’s, you're right, not a total slam dunk. So, right now the prosecutor is getting word of some new evidence from a very well respected FBI agent about how helpful the Flash and Mr Allen have both been in assisting with a case against a known human trafficker--you know her, Ammunet Black. The one you bought your puppet from. FBI picked her up…mmm, ten minutes ago? And she had some very interesting things to say. You can guess what they were. Add to that the evidence--” “What evidence?” “The wire transfers between you and Ms. Black. In December and a few days ago. We didn’t even have to fake that first one, but even if the second

one looks a little fishy, the fact that--” “Nate, we got him,” crackled Eliot’s voice in his ear. “--the police just found a metahuman locked in your hall closet--Weeper, I think is what Ms. Black called him-- should make things clear. He wasn’t thrilled about having to stick around much longer but your basement is pretty hard for normal people to find so we had to nudge that a bit. But hey, you’re all for planting evidence. Anyways, court’s in ten minutes…. but the police will be arresting you in about three, if my math’s right-- care to check?-- so I can make this very quick. We have video of you threatening the Flash, holding him prisoner the same night as that wire transfer, proof of Dominic’s powers and sale--my hacker thanks you for all those cameras and bugs, by the way, made his job much easier-- and you add that all up and it sure looks like you got upset at the Flash and Allen for poking into your meta trafficking and decided a frame up was in order.” Nate hefted the folder, “and then there’s this.” “And what,” Marlize asked, shaking with rage, “ is that?” “A copy of files that will be delivered to the FBI, NSA and Dean of Husdson University if you don’t admit to the frame up.” Nate said, thumbing through them. “Proof that you, Mrs. DeVoe, fed information to certain entities across Africa and the Middle East where you were doing your research and aid work to assist in their terror attacks and human trafficking--ties in quite nicely to your work with Ammunet, if I do say so myself. And proof that the “late” Mr. DeVoe plagiarized his thesis, his dissertation, even the syllabi for his classes.” “Lies. No one will believe any of--” “Oh, it’s all very well forged. Except for the bit about the Syllabi. For shame.” Nate tutted. “And part of the dissertation. Can they take away a PH.d posthumously? Anyways, even if it wasn’t, do you really think that no one would believe a man who thinks that giving everyone on the planet late stage Alzheimer’s is going to solve famine and illness? What kind of legitimate history teacher doesn’t know about cholera or the effects of the agricultural revolution? Every lie has a kernel of truth to it.” Nate glanced at the clock on the wall. “Well, that certainly was enlightening. And before you decide to simply kill me, run your little calculations with one more variable: Eliot Spencer.” DeVoe’s brow furrowed and what little color he had drained from his face. “ That’s what I thought. Three.. Two.. one.” Nate raised his voice. “ Help! I’m in here!” The door crashed from its hinges. “The Gloat is the best part,” Parker, FBI badge swinging, put an arm over Barry’s shoulders. He stood with Iris next to her and Eliot as the DeVoes were hauled away. “You know, I think I might have to agree,” Iris said, squeezing Barry’s hand. “Or second best, at least,” she added meaningfully. “So… what now?” Joe asked. “I mean, there’s still… the red tape, but… do we need to be worried? Don’t they still have--” “Oh, that sick chair and computer set up?” Hardison asked with a smirk. “I want it.” Harry announced. “When did you get here?” Hardison asked, affronted. -- Parker held up her badge as she pushed the crate up a ramp into Lucille. “Special Agent Hagen! Let me help you with that,” Agent McSweeten said, taking the dolley handle from her. Parker beamed, patting the side, careful not to dislodge the panel on the side. “Thanks!” -- “Anyways, you can’t just call dibs. You’re too late,” Hardison added, giving Parker a fistbump. “We stole it.”

#dammit hedgi day 2021 #leverage #the central city job #the flash

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thepriceofbeingaroseisloneliness · 4 years

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Toshiya Interview 「PHY」Vol.17 Translation 1/2

He talks about the negative parts in human beings that the world has no choice but to look straight at. Also, he talks about his own melancholy. “The places, the time, and the people I cherish are not eternal, rather, they can be destroyed in an instant…. that resignation…no…I wonder if there is an awakening about that”

Note before reading: This is the first part of Toshiya’s interview in 「PHY」Vol.17 released last 19th. This part covers half of the interview. You can already read the second part here. You can get the magazine at Cdjapan if you live out of Japan. Please buy and support it if you can. Feel free to correct me if you spot any mistake or any confusing parts. Links or credits to this post when the content is reposted or captured in other SNS is appreciated :) ----- It was the kind of interview that made me believe in them forever. DIR EN GREY's first digital single, 'Ochita koto no aru sora ', it’s a song like a warning bell that appeals to live without looking away from this restraining reality, as well as the desire to bet on a band of five members. Of course, there,the feelings of how each member feels about Corona are included there. In this solo interview with Toshiya (Bass), he talked about the melancholic feelings he is having facing the current situation of the world. In his own words, he feels sometimes hesitant to say his own thoughts, the conflict, the indecision, but at the same time, he revealed the reason why a strongly man like him felt the necessity to be in this band. Text by: Higuchi Yasuyuki Photos by: Sasahara Kiyoaki Hair&Make-up : Yamaguchi Atsushi “Putting their problems aside, we have lived mediocrely. Then, facing this situation, we are unable to compete. But that's the negative part that we have been facing for a long time” -The other day, I was allowed to hold an event at a certain place. T: Thank you. You were really helpful. -It's been a while since I witnessed the scene of the 5 of you reunited together. Your presence in the dressing room at that time, felt like a person who was really at home. T: What do you mean? (laughs) Well, I haven’t been meeting people. -It’s a time that it’s stimulating (meeting people)… T: It’s scary, isn’t it? If you get infected, you will affect those around you, moreover, if you get someone else infected…..you think about those things after all. -Staying all time at home made you feel depressed? T: Not really. Basically, because in the first place, my life is the same as when we are doing our underground activities. -The other members believed the same (laughs) T: So, it wasn’t depressing. These activities were rather normal or even plain. Well, if I had to say something that was different than usual…. thanks to having more time than usual (the single), it was completed very smoothly. -It seems like that. T: Originally, we were planning to record while touring but the postponement of the tour gave me some time and it was very smooth. -Are you always on a tough schedule? T: It’s already rough. And at the very end I always feel like I’m compressing everything so in that sense, it was every easy to do (the single) this time. -If you had made it between tours as planned, wouldn't the single have a different style?

T: There is a possibility. However, I don't think it would be completely different…. I don’t really know. -That's right. Personally, when I listened to this song, I thought about how you would perceive the current situation as a band that can’t see what lies ahead. It’s a song with a lot of power and energy, are you worried about the future of the band? T: I see. About what your personal thoughts…. I think this band will be fine as long as the members are living, like, the band will continue on as long as the members are alive. It might be an extreme reasoning but that's what I think myself. Regardless of the Corona and what will happen after it. -Because you don’t think that just because of this situation…. T: Yes. Because I think Dir en grey is consisted by these 5 people. Well, until now, I used to say it with words in interviews and so, but maybe recently I really came to think that. -It could be. T: In the past, being honest….when I was thinking about the band….of course I know I'm a person that would be in a band but I thought that there was no reason why it had to be these five people. -That way of thinking its not only limited to you, that’s a thing you think when you are young. T: It’s not only related to bands but also to human relationships. For example, let’s say that you insult someone on the internet. Of course, there might be a reason behind why that person got insulted but rather than insulting them, don’t say anything. You accumulate those things inside (the attacks/insults) and eventually that person will….like….* *He is is making a subtle reference to the recent news of Hana Kimura’s suicide after being harassed online. -There was this sad incident…. T: The places, the time, and the people I cherish are not eternal. A word that has no meaning at that time, the words of someone who doesn't understand the true meaning of what they are saying. With a single word that dances around with collective complicity, important things can be broken in a instant. That resignation…no… if you don’t have that awakening, that you don’t need to insult someone or do just as you please…. -Do you think you are the type of person that lets those things accumulate in yourself? T: How should it be? But I want to cherish where I am, I know that this position is only possible with these five people, so I sometimes I don’t express my thoughts, but it’s like that for all human beings, right? - When you started the band, you were more self-assertive but you had to change that in order to be able to continue in this band. T: That's right. After all, I'm basically a very selfish person (laughs), so I feel like I'm going to destroy the place I'm in if I'm a selfish person like I was in the past. Isn’t that scary? - You have that kind of trait rooted in yourself. T: When I was a kid, I was always selfish and selfish, for example, even if I played soccer with my friends, if I had the ball, I would go to the score goal myself. I didn’t pass it to anyone (laughs) -But team playing is an important thing in sports…. T: I had no spirit of cooperation. I was often told that by my parents. Like “As you are not cooperative, you’re better off doing things alone than doing it with others”. -And such a person has been in the same band for over 20 years (laughs) T: That's right. That's why I feel that the band has given me spirit of cooperation with others. If not, I would still be running to the score the goal with the ball (laughs). -But that kind of person is doing the bass in a band called Dir en grey, so I think it’s a perfect balance. T: Is that so? - The members in charge of bass and drums tend to be less self-assertive and more cooperative than vocals and guitars. I think that's probably because rhythm is related to the fundamental base of music and it’s created by the instrument that play it. T: In the past, that was the impression, right? About the bass. Like being a step back from everyone and playing silently. -But you are not that type of bassist. In the first place, each of you asserts themselves on stage. T: I agree. I mean, I've never though that "because I was the bassist I had to take a step back" (laughs) -That’s what DIR EN GREY is. I thought that it must be hard for the band to have a bassist with such a strong presence when I saw the current shooting. T: What it’s hard? -I meant that the individuality of each one of you collides violently. You can’t take pictures like these with 5 people, right? T: That's right. In a good way, it's also the band's mood. That's why I've been playing in this band with a mysterious sense of balance. I'm not going to take a step back, and while I have a desire to go forward, I'm also conscious of not going too far. “I feel that the band has given me spirit of cooperation with others. If not, I would still be running to the score the goal with the ball (laughs).” - You said that you have acquired that kind of balance in this band. T: That’s what I think. And that doesn’t apply just to me, but also to the other four members. Like, everyone is looking properly at others, not only themselves. It’s the same at lives, and of course what you want them to see it’s your playing but what I really want them to see the most is the sight of these five people standing there. That’s what the image of a cool band might be and on top of that, each of us can shine in their own way. - As I said earlier, I think you are really a strong person. And I think that's something that all the members of this band have in common. T: That might be true. - So, your personalities collide violently, and that friction is what creates your sound. However, on the other hand, there are some moments in which you have negative thoughts, or you are not confident in yourself. T: That's right. After all, I don't have self-confidence. - Especially in your case, I feel that you often make statements like that in interviews. T: Is that so?......mmmm…..I wonder why….but it’s like... I think that saying that kind of things doesn’t matter in some cases?.... -What do you mean with “it doesn’t matter”? T: Well, like they ask “are you confident?” and you are, but saying those things openly/loudly isn’t something that is bothering? I think it's only me who knows in what I am confident and in what aspects I am not. But then, do you know yourself well? If you ask me, I don’t know the answer at all. In short, you probably shouldn’t believe the words you are told. -You don’t believe in those words? T: Yes. Everything is a lie or a false image. Words, including lies and truths are mysterious. After all I believe it’s like that. Also, I think of myself as just a shallow/miserable person. Next part

#dir en grey #toshiya #phy vol 17 #phy magazine #translation #toshiyatranslations

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pterodactylterrace · 3 years

Text

Title: Guys Like You

Chapter: 3

Chapter Summary: You’re late for tea

Rating: 18+ for later chapters

Warning: Possible swear words, dirty thoughts, nudity

Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Friday had been a strange day for Faye. First, Henry wasn't on set. It took an embarrassingly long time for her to remember being told he had a few days off of filming.

Then, Mrs. Anderson sent her a strange series of texts asking about him. Sure, Faye had mentioned him a few times. Also, Briar was constantly going on about the man with the fluffy dog, so it made some sort of sense that she would ask about him. Not to mention Mrs. Anderson was always trying to find her a 'nice young man' to settle down with, so fixating on the one man she had mentioned wasn't that odd in retrospect.

Then, as she was pulling her beat up car into her driveway, she noticed an unfamiliar, shiny vehicle already parked outside. Maybe that was the new car Mr. Anderson had been dying for? Why would he park at her house instead of in his own drive a few doors down, though? Was it a surprise for Mrs. Anderson?

Now, she was walking into her house only to be greeted by a very excited, very large fluffball at the door.

"Kal?" That was definitely Kal. He was the only black and white Akita she knew with the habit of knocking his rear into her leg for attention, although his getup was rather strange. Why was Henry's dog in her house, and why was he wearing fairy wings, her daughter's dress up fairy tutu and at least a dozen mardi gras necklaces? Also, the floppy sun hat on his head was a nice touch. He seemed to enjoy having it on as well. That, or it was tied on too well for him to get off.

The dog's attire should have prepared her for when she looked into the living room. There sat Mrs. Anderson, her sun hat on along with one of Briar's scarfs and glow in the dark glasses perched above her regular seeing glasses. Next to her was Briar, her full fairy princess costume on, complete with wings, crown and a scepter, pouring pretend tea into the strangest guest's cup.

There sat Henry Cavill, cross legged on her living room floor, tiny plastic tea cup in his massive hand. On his head was perched a plastic crown, a feather boa wrapped around his thick neck, and if the sparkles were anything to go by, Briar had attacked him with her glitter body spray.

"Mommy!" Briar gasped, dropping her plastic tea pot and racing over to her mother, wrapping her arms around her legs.

"Hi, sweetie. What's going on?" Faye asked cautiously.

"You're late for tea." Henry replied, taking a pretend sip from his cup.

"I hope it's alright, dear. You did say he was a friend, and Briar seemed so fond of his dog, I didn't have the heart to turn him away." Mrs. Anderson explained.

"Uhh... yeah, it's fine." Faye mumbled, still taking in the sight before her, Kal and Briar rejoining the tea party as though nothing was out of the ordinary.

"My mistake. I thought we agreed on Friday." Henry apologized, pushing himself up. "We've only been here a little while. We can leave if you'd like."

"Oh, no. That's ok." Faye assured, finally setting her bag down, hastily turning over her sketch pad on the entrance table. Some things weren't meant for anyone other herself to see.

"I'll just be heading off then, Miss Warren." Mrs. Anderson excused herself, taking off her borrowed accessories and gathering her things. "You all have fun."

"So, uhh... how... how long have you been here?" Faye asked once she closed the door behind the older woman, quickly scanning the room to make sure nothing difficult to explain was in plain sight.

"Not long." Henry assured, sitting back down at Briar's insistent tugging, folding his long muscular legs back up as he settled on the floor in front of the coffee table.

"More tea!" Briar demanded, holding the cup up to his mouth, prompting him to take another pretend sip.

"You make wonderful tea, miss." Henry complimented, Briar preening in response.

"Mommy, you want tea?" Briar asked, a wide yawn cracking her little face.

"I would love some, sweetheart, but it's time for your nap." Faye pointed out.

"No! I wanna play tea!" Briar whined, plopping back on her backside in a pout.

"Briar." Faye warned, raising a brow at her.

"But... but... tea party!" Briar insisted.

"We can play more tea party after your nap. You're getting grumpy."

"No I'm not!" Briar insisted, her chubby face drawn into a scowl.

"That was grump right there." Faye pointed out, gently scooping up her cranky daughter. "Now let's go lay you down for a nap, and then we can play more tea party when you wake up."

"I don't wanna nap!" Briar yawned, rubbing her hazel eyes in an attempt to stay awake.

"You need one."

"I don't wanna nap, I'm tired!"

"Sound logic, my love." Faye sighed, settling her daughter into her bed, tucking her in with her favorite stuffed unicorn. The little girl was asleep before Faye even reached the door, curled up around her stuffie with her little tush up in the air.

"Sorry you had to see that. She really hates going down for a nap when she's having fun."

"Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to get her wound up." Henry apologized, removing the plastic crown from his head.

"Don't worry about it, she's just happy to have more guests at her tea party." Faye assured, picking up the plastic dishes and putting them back in the toy box.

"She was quite insistent we join, though I do think Kal enjoyed getting dressed up." Henry chuckled, beginning to remove the dog's costume.

"Good thing you agreed, otherwise you would have faced the wrath of Briar." Faye giggled, noticing the unicorn and rainbow stickers all over Henry's back.

"It was a pleasure attending her party. She is quite a wonderful host." Henry laughed, stowing the costumes back in the toy box. "Now, I do believe you requested help with a cake for our little party host."

"Yes, right this way." Faye waved, heading off to her tiny eat in kitchen. "What do we need?"

"Well... you have an oven, so that's a start. I brought the ingredients with me. Do you happen to have a cake pan?" Henry listed, opening the fridge and removing the bag he'd brought along.

"I have a glass baking pan." Faye offered.

"We will work with that." Henry agreed. "Now, measuring cups?"

"They are around here somewhere."

"Do you know how to use them?" Henry teased, setting the ingredients from the bag onto the counter.

"Vaguely. I just usually eyeball everything when I cook." Faye admitted.

"That won't work with baking. It's a science and the measurements have to be exact." Henry explained. "So, we'll start with the dry ingredients. Can you measure out two cups of flour?"

"I have no idea where the cup is. I have half a cup."

"Four of those, then." Henry absently mumbled, scanning over his mother's recipe card again. He glanced over to see her attacking the bag of flour with the measuring cup, wincing to himself as he watched. "Faye?"

"Mmhmm?"

"Forgive me for asking, but do you know how to measure flour?" Henry asked, cringing when she tried to smooth the top down with her hand, causing a flour explosion in her face.

"I'm guessing what I just did wasn't right."

"Not quite." Henry chuckled, stepping behind her, taking her hand in his and dumping the flour back into the bag. "You can use a spoon to sift it. Packed flour and unpacked flour are two totally different measurements." He explained, handing her a spoon and taking her other hand in his, showing her how to sift the flour into the measuring cup.

Faye tried to keep her cool and ignore the fact that Henry Cavill was pressed up behind her, holding her hands and showing her how to measure flour like it was the most natural thing in the world. Surely this was just some dream and if it was, no one had better wake her up.

"Got it?" Henry asked, turning his head to look at her, snapping her from her thoughts. Faye did her best not to stare at his lips, so close and yet so far away. She could just lean in...

"Yeah, got it." She quickly confirmed, forcing her attention back to the task at hand.

And so it went, Henry leading the way through the mysterious land of baking, Faye following blindly behind. He even let her lick the spoon when he was done with it, and he in no way stared in awe at the way her tongue moved around it. He was a gentleman, after all, and imagining what else that tongue could do would be highly inappropriate.

It wasn't until after the cake had been pulled from the oven to cool that Briar woke up, wandering into the kitchen with her now disheveled princess costume still on, her hair sticking out in strange angles as she rubbed her eyes.

"You're here!" Briar gasped, taking notice of the giant in the room and scurrying over to him, throwing her arms around his legs.

"Nice to know where I stand." Faye pouted as Henry scooped the girl up, her daughter not even glancing her way in favor of talking to Henry.

"Can we play dollies?" Briar asked, batting her thick dark lashes at him, her chubby lip sticking out in a pout.

"I've never played before, you'll have to show me how." Henry agreed, smiling down at the little girl held securely in his arm.

"Mommy, you look silly!" Briar giggled, finally looking over at her mother.

"That's not nice." Faye gently scolded.

"What on your face?" Briar asked.

"Mommy had an incident with the flour." Henry explained. Shit. Had she really spent the last hour, practically drooling over her guest with flour all over her face? She really should write a book on how to flirt. No doubt, it would be a best seller.

"I'm gonna go get cleaned up." Faye mumbled, her face heating up beneath the flour coating as she ducked her head and beelined down the hall.

"I'll be learning how to play dolls." Henry chuckled after her, carrying the toddler back to the living room so her mother could shower in peace.

Fifteen minutes later, Briar was still explaining the different names of her dolls and stuffed animals, piling each on top of Henry and resorting to stuffing them under Kal's paws when she ran out of room on her semi-willing captive. Faye cracked the bathroom door open and glanced to the living room to make sure her guest was thoroughly distracted before she slipped out of the bathroom, towel wrapped tightly around herself as she snuck down the hall to her bedroom, breathing a sigh of relief when she closed the door behind herself. She could almost convince herself he was interested in her with the couple times she'd caught him looking her way when he thought she wouldn't notice. No need to scare him off with her mom-bod now.

Sure, it hadn't been that hard on her figure. She wasn't left with the same saggy stomach her mother had after her pregnancies, but then again, her mother had carried two sets of twins almost to term. Talk about a superwoman. Though she did decide no more children after her younger brother and sister had been born.

"You keep giving me a two for one deal, I'm not doing this again!"

Good times. Good times. The wonders of having twins running strongly in your family. Faye had only given birth to one, but she still bore the stretch marks on her stomach and breasts, and the loose skin on her stomach had never really gone back to the way it was before.

Faye was shaken from her thoughts by her daughter's all too familiar exclamation coming from behind her. "Mommy, you're nakie!" She would never understand her daughter's near obsession with pointing out the fact that she was in fact, naked during and directly after showers, but it was without a doubt one of her favorite hobbies. Right behind tea parties if she had to guess.

"Wait, what? Oh!" That was not her daughter's voice. Faye's head snapped up to find Briar's chubby hand wrapped tightly around Henry's little finger, his other hand clapped firmly over his eyes. "I am so sorry! She wanted to get her stuffed dragon, I did not know this was your room!"

Faye snatched her towel off the bed and wrapped it around herself again, grabbing the dragon from the pillow and handing it off to Briar. The little girl happily took her dragon and led Henry back down the hall, not bothering with the door. The wonders of being young and innocent. She had no clue what she had just done.

Faye quickly shut the door herself, remembering to turn the lock this time, though it was a moot point by then. She threw on a tank top, leggings and her fluffy socks before forcing herself to venture back out. Henry was actually sitting on the couch this time, doing his best to focus on what the little girl was saying, though truth be told, his mind kept wandering back to the quick glimpse he had gotten of Faye's backside before he registered what was going on. It was even better than the glances he had gotten when she bent over in front of him to rummage through her make up bag. Nice and round, plump yet firm. The kind of ass you just want to squeeze as you're-

"So... " Faye started awkwardly, quickly breaking Henry out of his own head. "Lunch sound good?"

"Chocolate sandwiches!" Briar quickly suggested, hugging her stuffed bunny to her chest as she bounced around.

"It looks like I'm making chocolate sandwiches, though I could probably also manage a peanut butter and jelly."

"I wouldn't want to impose, though I did want to apologize again-"

"Accident's happen, but we are going to pretend that one didn't, ok?" Faye interjected. "So nutella or peanut butter and jelly?"

"Umm... either is fine."

"Briar, keep them company while mommy makes lunch, ok?" Faye suggested, going back to the kitchen before her false confidence faded. If he was on board with repressing and denying, so was she.

Now, only one questioned remained: Would Henry prefer his sandwiches cut into dinosaurs or puzzle pieces?

#henry cavill #henry cavill fanfiction #henry cavill x ofc #tea party #henry cavill fanfic #guys like you #guys like you fic #multi chapter

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